THE    GARDEN 
OF     YEARS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


UC-NRLF 


GUY  WETMORE 
CARRYL 


The  Garden  of  Years 


And  Other  Poems 


By 


'  T  was  in  the  garden,  phantom-trod,  of  those 
My  younger  years,  when  life  before  me  lay, 
That  first  I  saw  the  flo^ver  of  Love  unclose 
From  fancy's  folded 

Garden  of  Years" 
Stanza  XII. 


G.  P.   P  Sons 


for  • 

With  the  courteous  consent  of  Messrs.  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 


The  Garden  of  Years 

And  Other  Poems 

By 

Guy  Wetmore  Carryl 


G.  P.   Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

ttbe  luitcfcerbocher  prese 
1904 


Copyright,  1904 

by 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Published,  November,  1904 


imicfterbocfter  prew,  «ew 


GUY  WETMORE  CARRYL 

DIED  APRIL  I,  1904 

Yes,  the  gods  loved  him.     In  his  one  brief  hour 
They  gave  him  all  fair  gifts  within  their  power. 

Yet  oh,  the  pity  of  it !     Would  that  they 
Had  paused  ere  they  bestowed  their  final  dower. 

Carolyn  Wells. 


Ill 


3325 


Contents 

The  Garden  of  Years 


The  White  Republic 39 

Rex  Captivus 42 

Ad  Finem  Fideles 46 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In  ...  48 

Tripoli 51 

Gloria  Mundi 57 

The  Fog 62 

Harlequin 66 

The  Passing  of  Pan 70 

Phoebus  Apollo 72 

"  Whom  the  World  Calls  Idle  " 76 

Hesperia 79 

Haven-Mother 81 

Gettysburg 85 

Atlantis 91 

The  Easter  Lily 93 

"  The  Winds  and  the  Sea  Obey  Him  "...  95 

v 


Contents 


PAGE 


Derelict 97 

The  Debutante 101 

Shells 104 

At  Twilight 106 

Paris 109 

Ebb-Tide ill 

June 113 

The  Children 115 

Narcissus 118 

Pompeii 121 

On  the  Prow 124 

A  Fragment 125 

The  Spirit  of  Mid-Ocean 127 


VI 


Author's  Note 

I  HAVE  pleasure  in  acknowledging  my  indebtedness  to 
the  editors  of  the  following  periodicals  for  permission  to 
reprint  in  this  form  the  poems  hereinafter  contained: 
Scribner's  Magazine,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  the  Century 
Magazine,  Harper  s  Magazine  and  Harper  s  Weekly,  Lippin- 
cott's  Magazine,  Literature  (London),  Munseys  Magazine, 
and  the  Congregationalist. 

G.  W.  C. 


vn 


To  the  Reader 

IF  Guy  Carryl  had  belonged  to  an  earlier  generation,  it 
may  be  conjectured  that  he  would  have  become  known 
chiefly  as  a  poet.  Such  more  certainly  would  have  been  the 
case  if  he  had  grown  up  in  rural  life,  apart  from  the  oppor- 
tunities for  general  literary  work  that,  as  it  was,  came  to 
him  from  the  first.  The  lyrical  bent  was  strong  within 
him.  This  might  almost  be  inferred  from  one  little  poem 
which  he  wrote,  while  still  a  lad,  on  the  death  of  a  child. 
It  contains  a  tender  conceit,  expressed  with  the  grace  and 
feeling  that  have  warranted  its  preservation  in  a  collection 
of  his  maturer  serious  verse. 

His  early  writings,  grave  or  gay,  were  often  in  metrical 
form,  but  not  of  the  self-conscious  type  that  marks  the 
callow  dreamer.  They  were  the  bright  improvisations  of  a 
young  man  who  inherited,  besides  the  poet's  ear  and  voice, 
a  sense  of  the  mirthful,  and  the  impulse  to  fashion  whatever 
could  lighten  the  heart  of  a  child,  or  "that  child's  heart 
within  the  man's"  which  even  the  luckless  still  retain.  The 

ix 


To  the  Reader 

bulk  of  his  diversified  and  abundant  early  work  was  of  the 
most  buoyant  nature  possible.  It  could  scarcely  have  been 
otherwise,  with  his  unique  facility  and  irrepressible  zest  in 
life. 

Life  must  have  seemed  very  fair  to  him,  as  he  himself 
seemed  to  others,  when  I  first  knew  him  in  his  student 
days.  He  did  everything  with  a  happy  ease,  and  was  ap- 
parently without  a  care.  Handsome,  healthy,  debonair, — 
a  youth  in  years  and  bearing,  a  man  in  his  accomplishments, 
— he  surely  was  Fortune's  favorite.  I  remember  his  many 
graces,  and  the  sparkling  quality  of  the  plays  that  he  wrote, 
and  that  proved  so  apt  when  enacted  by  fellow-students  or 
by  the  associations  for  which  some  of  them  were  cast.  With 
all  his  relish  for  life,  he  was  steadfastly  ambitious,  and  the 
reverse  of  an  idler  devoted  to  pleasures  everywhere  within 
his  reach.  Still,  in  the  strength  of  his  youth,  he  seemed 
quite  equal  to  either  experience  or  work,  and  likely  to  take 
his  fill  of  both. 

This  he  succeeded  in  doing,  as  a  poet,  an  observer,  a 
journalist,  a  novelist,  a  man  in  touch  with  his  comrades  and 
the  world.  The  present  collection  embraces  the  poems 
which  he  had  begun  to  arrange,  substantially  as  here  given, 
and  which  may  be  considered  expressive  of  his  most  ele- 

x 


To  the  Reader 

vated  moods.  They  were  the  overflow  of  a  talent  that  was 
largely  occupied  with  lighter  work,  or,  most  of  all,  in  the 
prose  fiction  by  which  he  gained,  and  was  increasing,  his 
hold  upon  public  favor.  In  the  thought  of  all  that  might 
have  been  the  outcome  of  after  years,  I  am  moved  by  the 
pity  of  their  denial.  As  it  is,  the  hands  of  his  elders  set  the 
lamp  on  the  stone  that  bears  his  name, — a  service  which, 
had  not  the  order  of  things  been  thus  reversed,  he  would 
not  have  failed,  in  their  behalf,  to  render. 

A  young  author  traditionally  catches  some  manner  of  his 
time  that  most  appeals  to  him.  Such  has  been  the  wont  of 
poets  who  have  lived  to  institute,  in  their  turn,  new  modes, 
and  to  have  their  own  followers.  During  the  brief  tenure 
of  Guy  Carryl's  activity  two  opposing  tendencies  of  verse 
have  been  much  in  vogue.  One  of  these  betrays  a  lack  of 
feeling  and  spontaneity  through  its  curious  elaboration,  and 
has  been  frankly  termed,  by  its  votaries,  the  decadent  song 
of  a  dying  century.  At  the  other  extreme  is  the  virile,  per- 
haps too  careless,  balladry  of  which  the  English  imperialist 
poet  is  the  forceful  exemplar.  It  may  be  placed  to  the 
credit  of  the  author  of  this  volume  that, — despite  his  at- 
tachment for  France  and  her  literature,  and  his  residence 
in  Paris  during  impressible  years, — his  verse  is  in  nowise 

xi 


To  the  Reader 

decadent ;  it  betrays  hardly  a  trace  of  the  symbolist  diction  so 
little  in  accord  with  the  genius  of  our  English  tongue.  His 
ballads — and  he  is  at  his  best  in  these — have  the  ring  of  a 
manful  and  genuinely  American  songster.  They  are  what 
such  a  one  might  well  compose  at  the  outset  of  a  new 
century,  and  in  a  country  of  the  future.  Nearly  all  of  this 
verse  is  in  the  major  key.  Even  its  brooding  sentiment  is 
that  of  a  live  man  and  no  weakling. 

Byron  was  a  live  man,  and,  to  the  end,  a  young  man, 
never  more  so  than  when  he  thought  himself  otherwise.  If 
it  were  just  to  apply  a  single  epithet  to  the  titular  poem  of 
this  volume,  it  might  be  termed  Byronic;  for  it  is  full  of 
the  Haroldian  spirit  of  youth, — never  more  so  than  when 
its  writer,  at  that  stage  where  a  man  feels  older  than  he  ever 
again  will  feel  until  reaching  his  grand  climacteric,  breaks 
forth  with  "Heart  of  my  heart,  I  am  no  longer  young!" 
He  revels,  besides,  like  the  Georgian  pilgrim,  in  the  sense 
of  freedom,  as  he  goes  oversea  to  test  the  further  world. 
The  Garden  of  Years  is  a  love  poem ;  but  its  emotion  is 
a  warm  under-color,  toning  a  novice's  pictures  of  travel 
during  his  wander-year.  Technically,  the  poem  is  cast  in 
an  original  stanzaic  form,  effectively  maintained  from  begin- 
ning to  end. 

xii 


To  the  Reader 

This  prelude  is  not  a  criticism,  but  a  tribute  of  affection 
and  remembrance.  Readers  who  care  for  poetry  will  at 
once  observe  that  a  certain  lyrical  eloquence  is  a  general 
characteristic  of  The  Garden  of  Years  and  the  ensuing 
shorter  pieces,  charged  with  a  passion  for  Nature  and  a 
spirit  of  intense  sympathy  with  their  author's  fellow-men. 
Equally  manifest  is  his  versatility,  shown  by  the  exultant 
tone  of  the  hymn  of  rehabilitation,  Gloria  Mundi,  the 
tenderness  of  At  Twilight,  and  the  light  touch  of  The 
Debutante, — a  range  even  more  striking  when  contrasted 
with  the  whimsical  drollery  of  his  published  volumes  of 
humorous  verse.  He  did  right  in  grouping  together  the 
five  ballads  that  follow  the  title-poem ;  and  in  so  doing  em- 
phasized not  only  their  strength,  but  the  patriotism  which 
was  one  of  his  most  attractive  traits.  Proud  of  his  country's 
victories,  American  to  the  core,  he  is  nowhere  more  im- 
pulsive than  in  the  fine  lyric,  When  the  Great  Gray  Ships 
Come  In,  which  sings  of  peace  rather  than  of  war.  It  ex- 
presses,  no  less,  his  passion  for  the  sea  and  his  comprehen- 
sion of  it.  Like  that  older  bard  of  our  Eastern  Coast, 
he  had  the  key  to  ocean's  book  of  mystery;  he  loved  its 
tides  and  eddies,  the  shells  and  flotsam  along  its  shores,  its 
laughter  and  mist  and  surge.  The  ships  upon  its  bosom, 

xiii 


To  the  Reader 

the  derelicts  that  never  reached  their  "  Haven- Mother," 
charmed  his  imagination.  Finally,  one  may  note  how, 
throughout  his  swift  and  crowded  experience,  his  sense  of 
reverence  was  never  dulled.  The  lines  entitled  The  Winds 
and  the  Sea  Obey  Him  came  from  no  frivolous  heart.  As 
he  looked  out  upon  the  waters,  he  was  moved  to  write  that 
"amid  a  vexing  multitude  of  creeds  "  his  faith  abided  still. 
The  Spirit  of  Mid-Ocean — at  once  his  valediction  and  a  vivid 
token  of  his  birthright  as  a  poet — closes  with  unaffected 
homage  to  the  Source  whence  inspiration  flows  to  every 
soul — to  each  according  to  his  degree  and  need : 

"  Hush!     If  this  be  the  servant,  what  must  the  Master  be  ?  " 

E.  C.  STEDMAN. 

September,  1904. 


XIV 


The  Garden  of  Years 


The  Garden  of  Years 


I    HAVE  shut  fast  the  door,  and  am  alone 
With  the  sweet  memory  of  this  afternoon, 
That  saw  my  vague  dreams  on  a  sudden  grown 
Into  fulfilment,  as  I  oft  have  known 
Stray  notes  upon  a  keyboard  fall  atune 
When  least  persuaded.     I  besought  no  boon 
Of  Fate  to-day ;  I  that,  since  first  Love  came 

Into  my  life,  have  been  so  importune. 
To-day  alone  I  did  not  press  my  claim, 
And  lo !  all  I  have  dreamed  of  is  my  own ! 
I 


The  Garden  of  Years 

II 

I  have  shut  fast  the  door,  for  so  I  may 
Relive  that  moment  of  the  turn  of  tide — 

That  swift  solution  of  the  long  delay 

That  clothed  with  silver  splendor  dying  day ; 
And,  with  low-whispering  memory  for  guide, 
See  once  again  your  startled  eyes  confide 

The  secret  of  surrender ;  and  your  hand 

Flutter  toward  mine,  before  you  turn  aside — 

And  the  gold  wings  of  young  consent  expand 
Fresh  from  the  cracking  chrysalis  of  Nay ! 

Ill 

I  did  not  dare  to  speak  at  first.     It  seemed 

A  thing  unreal,  that  with  the  air  might  blend — 

That  strange  swift  signal — and  I  feared  I  dreamed ! 

Ahead,  the  city's  lamps,  converging,  gleamed 
To  a  thin  angle  at  the  street's  far  bend, 
And,  as  we  neared,  each  from  its  column's  end 

Stepped  out,  and  past  us,  furtive,  slipped  away: 
Nor  could  Love's  self  a  longer  respite  lend 

The  radiant  moments  of  our  shortening  day, 
That  Time,  the  donor,  one  by  one  redeemed. 
2 


The  Garden  of  Years 

IV 

We  spoke  of  eloquently  empty  things ; 

Of  younger  days  that  were  before  we  met, 
The  trivial  acts  to  which  the  memory  clings, 
And  in  familiar  spots  unbidden  brings 

To  mind,  when  graver  matters  we  forget. 

The  sacred  secret  lay  unspoken,  yet 
Hovered,  half-veiled,  between  our  conscious  eyes, 

Touched  with  an  indefinable  regret 
For  that  swift  moment  of  our  love's  surprise — 

Like  a  waked  bird,  poised  upon  ready  wings. 

V 

I  cannot  tell  how  first  we  came  to  dwell 

In  short,  shy  words  upon  this  closer  theme, 
Or  how  it  was  each  understood  so  well 
There  was  no  need  in  clearer  speech  to  tell 

The  phases  of  our  duplicated  dream. 

In  that  sweet  intimacy,  it  would  seem 
Our  endless  love  had  never  been  begun : 

Like  the  twin  branches  of  a  tranquil  stream 
Our  two  hearts  ran  together  and  were  one, 

With  no  trite  word  to  mar  the  perfect  spell ! 

3 


The  Garden  of  Years 

VI 

Heart  of  my  heart,  I  am  no  longer  young : 

Long  have  I  waited  for  this  day  of  days 
When  some  small  sign  from  you  should  loose  my  tongue- 
When  I  should  see  that  gate  wide-open  flung 

That  of  Love's  garden  screened  the  sunlit  ways; 

Long  have  I  waited,  till  your  hand  should  raise 
The  veil  between  our  understanding  eyes, 

That  you  in  mine,  that  I  in  yours  might  gaze, 
While  my  heart  shouted  to  the  open  skies 

The  song  that  long  in  silence  it  hath  sung ! 

VII 

Dear  eyes  of  earnest  brown !     How  well  I  know 

Their  every  sadness  and  their  every  smile ; 
How  I  have  watched  their  laughter  come  and  go, 
Or  some  swift  shadow  cloud  their  bonny  glow 

Of  stingless  scoffing  and  of  guiltless  guile: 

How  jealous  grew  I  in  an  instant,  while 
Some  thought  I  knew  not  on  the  mirror  blew ! 

Forgotten,  from  my  heaven  I  stood  exile, 
And  my  rose  dreamings  dimmed  upon  my  view, 

As  sunset's  fire  grays  on  the  Alpine  snow. 

4 


The  Garden  of  Years 

VIII 

But  each  doubt  fled  as  swift  as  it  appeared ; 

And,  day  by  day,  I  grew  to  understand 
The  heart  of  him  who  long  his  death  hath  feared, 
And,  sudden,  sees  the  stately  palms  upreared 

Of  some  oasis  in  a  desert  land. 

Yet,  even  as  that  far  green  across  the  sand 
Cheered  the  dry  way  of  my  heart's  wandering, 

I  hardly  looked  at  length  to  plunge  my  hand 
And  thirsty  lips  deep  in  the  distant  spring 

That  step  by  step  my  feet  so  slowly  neared. 

IX 

For  often  I  had  seen  the  broken  pledge 

Of  far  mirages,  swung  upon  the  air, 
Touched  with  the  tender  green  of  palm  and  sedge, 
And  where  a  thin  stream,  sliding  from  a  ledge, 

Promised  me  hope  and  paid  me  in  despair. 

So,  come  at  last,  in  spite  of  all,  to  where 
The  falling  waters  all  the  senses  cool, 

Is  it  so  strange  that  I  should  hardly  dare 
Believe  I  stand  in  truth  beside  the  pool 

That  shone  so  small  upon  the  desert's  edge? 

5 


The  Garden  of  Years 


I  have  come  far.     If  my  lips  cannot  say 

The  words  that  younger  lovers  use  to  woo, 
It  is  because  the  long  and  thirsty  day, 
The  sun-baked  stretches  of  my  weary  way, 

Have  dried  their  memory  of  the  holy  dew. 

If  I  cannot  at  once  my  claim  renew 
To  light,  and  perfume,  music,  and  a  smile, 

It  is  because  of  discords,  had  in  lieu 
Of  harmonies.     Sweet,  patience  for  a  while ! 

I  shall  praise  later.     Grant  me  time  to  pray. 

XI 

Heart  of  my  heart,  blame  not  the  arid  sand : — 

It  has  but  lent  the  turf  a  deeper  green. 
Blame  not  the  copper  skies  that  overspanned 
The  heartless  reaches  of  that  backward  land : — 

For  them  the  water  shows  a  smoother  sheen. 

And  blame  me  not  if  at  the  brink  I  lean 
Mutely,  and  seem  uneloquent  and  cold : — 

Viewing  the  verdure  of  this  fair  demesne. 
I  am  so  young,  who  yesterday  was  old ! 

It  is  enough  to  try  to  understand. 
6 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XII 

'T  was  in  the  garden,  phantom-trod,  of  those 
My  younger  years,  when  life  before  me  lay, 

That  first  I  saw  the  flower  of  Love  unclose 

From  fancy's  folded  bud.     Youth  only  knows 
How  tenderly  I  longed  to  pluck  it !     Nay, 
I  would  not  waken  those  dead  hours  to-day : 

For  Time's  consuming  fire,  with  lambent  lip, 
Has  kissed  my  fair  frail  flower,  and  so  I  may 

Not  touch  with  the  most  careful  finger-tip 
Its  ashes,  perfect  as  the  unburnt  rose. 

XIII 

From  our  Fate's  map  of  matters  foreordained 

Who  of  us  all  would  rend  the  veil  away — 
See  the  sealed  shrine  of  destiny  profaned, 
And  all  the  awful  ultima  explained, 

Arid  so  lose  right  to  hope  and  need  to  pray? 

Who  is  there  of  us  all  who  would  not  say 
That  mystery  is  merciful?    Too  soon 

Our  roses  droop,  our  limpid  skies  go  gray, 
And  youth's  morn  glooms  to  age's  afternoon : — 

Let  the  lees  lie  until  the  wine  be  drained. 

7 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XIV 

Yet  are  some  hours  by  rapture  made  so  bright 

That  the  sense  reels  before  the  blinding  blaze 
Of  an  effulgent  radiancy,  that  might, 
Spread  through  a  lifetime,  shed  the  steady  light 

Of  calm  content  on  twice  ten  thousand  days. 

Ah,  if  the  jealous  future  would  but  raise 
These,  like  white  beacons  on  a  sad  sea  thrown, 

How  patient  we  should  be  of  life's  delays 
That  seem  denials ! — Ah,  love,  had  I  but  known 

All  my  life  long  the  will  of  Fate  to-night! 

XV 

Close  was  your  secret  guarded,  empty  years ! 

No  far  horizon  ever  hid  so  well 
The  dreamt-of  harbors  of  imagined  spheres 
From  the  strained  eyes  of  ocean's  pioneers, 

Until  the  appointed  dawn  from  swell  to  swell 

Leaped,  and  decreed  discovery  befel. 
Had  I  but  known,  how  different  all  had  been ! 

To-day — to-day  of  which  you  would  not  tell — 
Had  lain  upon  my  heart  like  the  unseen 

Familiar  green  of  shores  their  native  nears. 
8 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XVI 

Ah,  prescient  day  when  I  came  down  to  thee, 

Heart  of  the  sea,  rebellious  as  my  own ! 
No  other  tongue  could  tell  the  tragedy 
Of  those  boy-dreamings  that  were  not  to  be ; 

Such  eloquence  was  thine  and  thine  alone. 

So  that  fair  western  land,  where  they  had  grown, 
Sank  to  a  thin  grey  line,  and  so  I  turned 

And  pledged  my  troth  unto  the  great  unknown, 
Cruel,  kind  world.     How  little  had  I  learned 

In  all  the  years  before  I  sought  the  sea ! 

XVII 

For  as  a  myriad  bubbles  on  our  stern 

Flashed  to  swift  life,  and  then  as  swiftly  died, 
My  fancy  saw,  like  them,  my  visions  yearn 
An  instant  on  my  eyes,  and  then  return 

Upon  the  eddies  of  the  backward  tide. 

Dear  hopes  of  youth,  so  youthfully  allied 
With  one  familiar  corner  of  the  world ! 

Dear  foolish  dreams,  in  mercy  thus  denied ! 
How  little  knew  I  what  the  East  unfurled : — 

I  was  so  wise,  and  had  so  much  to  learn ! 

9 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XVIII 

All  my  life  long  in  memory  I  shall  guard 
That  slow  sea-swing  that  lullabied  the  heart, 

While  the  thin,  thoughtful  mast,  shrouded  and  sparred, 

Moved  in  and  out  upon  the  silver-starred 
Midnight,  as  if  it  traced  upon  a  chart : 
And  the  prow  forced  the  fluttering  waves  apart, 

As  they  had  been  the  leaves  of  some  wise  tome, 
Wherefrom  it  read  Life's  story  from  the  start, 

Set  to  the  music  of  the  whirling  foam, 

Wind-rippled  cordage,  and  slow-straining  yard. 

XIX 

All  my  life  long  in  memory  I  shall  know 

How  the  slow,  careful  fingers  of  the  light 
Sort  and  shift  countless  jewels  to  and  fro 
On  liquid  velvet,  when  the  breezes  blow 

After  the  calm  that  lay  upon  the  night. 

All  my  life  long  shall  linger  on  my  sight 
One  flower-like  cloud  that  watched  the  daylight  die, 

Until  the  west-wind,  pausing  in  its  flight, 
Plucked  it,  and  idly  on  a  turquoise  sky 

Scattered  its  petals  in  a  crimson  snow. 

10 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XX 

And  yet,  had  I  but  known  what  was  to  be, 

The  stillness  sweet  had  been  more  sweetly  still, 
The  laughter-laden  singing  of  the  sea, 
That  hallowed  life  and  pledged  eternity, 

I  should  not  then  have  understood  so  ill. 

And,  seeing  how  the  west-wind  worked  its  will 
Upon  the  cloud,  I  should  have  known  how  you 

Would  one  day  in  a  myriad  roses  spill 
My  life,  and  give  me  faith  and  hope,  in  lieu 

Of  the  black  heart  that  you  plucked  out  from  me. 

XXI 

O  my  one  love,  so  frail,  so  fair,  so  pure, 

Had  I  but  seen  you  faintly  and  afar, 
My  fluctuating  faith  had  pointed  sure 
As  swings  the  needle — slave,  while  worlds  endure, 

To  the  mute  bidding  of  the  northern  star — 

And  many  things  had  never  been  that  are ! 
Had  I  but  known  what  Life  would  bring  to-day, 

How  had  the  years  sung  by,  with  naught  to  mar 
That  sweet  crescendo,  to  our  fairy-play 

Hope's  eloquent,  enchanted  overture! 
II 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXII 

Now,  from  the  goal  of  this,  my  heart's  fair  fate, 

I  scan  the  backward  way  with  wondering  eyes, 
And,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  debate 
Upon  each  changing  charm  that  lay  in  wait 

Beneath  the  arch  of  ever  stranger  skies. 

Like  to  a  map  the  varied  prospect  lies 
Of  the  long  years  since  from  your  side  I  turned : 

Fata  Morgana-wise  my  pleasures  rise, 
Each  in  its  turn  sought  after,  squandered,  spurned — 

More  trivial  each,  that  treasured  was  of  late ! 

XXIII 

How  wide  a  world  it  was  that  met  my  sight, 

Whose  eyes  were  narrowed  to  but  childish  things ! 

Asia  lay  bathed  in  unimagined  light, 

With  all  the  splendors  of  her  past  bedight, 
Work  of  the  ages'  full-forgotten  kings : 
And,  rocking  'twixt  her  summers  and  her  springs, 

The  blue-robed  Indian  Ocean  slept  and  sighed, 
Decked  with  her  emerald  islands,  looped  in  strings 

Upon  the  breathing  bosom  of  her  tide : — 

Slept  all  bronze  day,  and  all  star-studded  night. 

12 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXIV 

Africa  frowned  across  my  breathless  lee, 

Mute,  unforgetful,  cursed,  but  unconquered  still, 
Sahara-hemmed  in  heart  and  destiny, 
Unpardoned  yet,  and  yet  too  proud  for  plea, 

Pregnant  with  purpose  of  unaltered  ill. 

Distant,  the  swerved  sirocco  seemed  to  spill 
From  its  black  cup  a  plague  upon  the  land, 

And,  crawling  on  past  barren  ridge  and  hill 
Through  hope-devouring  endlessness  of  sand, 

The  swarthy  Nile  sulked  northward  to  the  sea. 

XXV 

Those  earliest  Americas  of  all 

That,  with  half-lowered  lids,  dream  on  the  day 
Of  the  imperial  Incas,  seemed  to  call, 
As,  when  their  own  long,  languid  evenings  fall, 

The  sea  calls  landward  from  her  curving  bay. 

Hearing,  I  answered,  bent  my  aimless  way 
To  the  cool  shade  that  nestled  'neath  their  palms, 

And  so,  long  nights  on  sloping  shoreways  lay, 
While  moons  crept,  silver-shod,  across  the  calms, 

And  wrapped  their  radiance  in  the  horizon's  pall. 

13 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXVI 

Years  melted  into  years  as  still  I  strayed, 

And  Life,  still  searching,  from  her  pack  withdrew 

More  novel  baubles,  offered  me  in  trade 

For  those  unvalued  days,  wherewith  I  paid 
Because  with  them  I  knew  not  what  to  do : 
Till  at  the  end,  I  smiled  to  think  of  you 

As  but  a  memory.     Fool !     How  swift  I  found, 
Like  the  mechanic  mole,  I  burrowed  through 

Oblivion,  an  inch  below  the  ground ! 

One  touch,  and  all  my  blindness  lay  displayed. 

XXVII 

I  know,  should  some  one  ask  me  which  was  best 

Of  all  the  lands  wherewith  our  world  is  starred, 
There  could  be  but  one  answer  to  the  test. 
A  rover  heart  had  urged  me  on  a  quest 

Wherein  all  gates  of  distance  were  unbarred, 

Yet  never  was  I  able  to  discard 
The  thought  of  that  young  land  that  gave  me  birth : 

Still  in  my  memory's  holiest  shrine  I  guard 
That  virgin  daughter  of  the  grim  old  earth, 

The  star-eyed  White  Republic  of  the  West ! 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXVIII 

Yet,  like  some  chapter  of  an  old  romance, 

My  heart  holds  one  memorial  morning  dear, 
When  the  gray  hazes  whirled,  as  in  a  dance, 
Up  from  the  rippled  Channel's  wide  expanse, 

And  sunlit  shores  stept,  on  a  sudden,  near. 

On  that  chief  day  of  that  prophetic  year 
Some  pledge  I  could  but  dimly  understand, 

Some  subtle  spell,  lay  on  the  calm  and  clear 
Blue  harbor  of  this  mute  majestic  land, 

And  hope  shone  smiling  in  the  eyes  of  France ! 

XXIX 

And  France  it  was  that  crushed  my  callow  creed, 

That  held  me  like  a  mother  to  her  breast ; 
That  staunched  the  wounds  my  ignorance  made  bleed, 
And,  in  the  hour  of  that,  my  direst  need, 

Showed  where  my  star  still  hung  against  the  West. 

France  was  the  judge  that  put  my  faith  to  test, 
Little  by  little  lent  it  sturdier  strength, 

And  schooled  the  rover  in  the  rules  of  rest ; 
And  now,  dear  heart,  that  you  are  mine  at  length, 

I  see  't  was  she  that  taught  me  love  indeed. 

15 


The  Garden  of  Years 

xxx 

Thus,  in  my  deepest  heart  must  I  inshrine 
Her  stately  cliffs,  patrolled  by  guardian  seas ; 

Her  hollowed  hillsides,  where  the  slender  vine, 

Pregnant  with  promise  of  the  autumn  wine, 
Leans  on  its  staff  against  the  battling  breeze : 
And  all  her  silver  streams,  that  seek  the  seas, 

Threading  the  dappled  fabric  of  her  lawns — 
Her  crimson  sunsets,  snared  among  the  trees, 

And  all  the  crescent  glory  of  her  dawns, — 
For  I  am  hers  for  aye,  and  she  is  mine ! 

XXXI 

The  murmured  secrets  of  her  Norman  firs, 
Wherein  at  night  the  whisper  of  the  air 

To  busy  babble  all  the  branches  spurs, 

Till  every  drowsy  needle  wakes  and  stirs, 
And  of  the  gossip  speaks  its  little  share : 
Her  shadowy  mines,  her  southern  gardens,  where 

The  oval  olives  crowd  the  bending  bough : 
All  these  are  mine : — but,  most  of  all,  O  fair 

Laughing  and  languid  Paris,  mine  art  thou, 
Pinned  like  a  pearl  on  that  white  brow  of  hers ! 
16 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXXII 

Waywardest  wanton  of  the  world  to  woo, 

Blackest  of  heart,  of  face  the  most  sublime, 
O  Cleopatran  city,  through  and  through 
Blazing  with  sin  and  splendor,  once  I  knew 

No  star  upon  the  black  night  of  thy  crime ; 

Till  on  the  stagnant  bosom  of  thy  slime 
Bloomed  a  white  lily  with  a  heart  of  gold : — 

Heart  of  my  heart,  what  matters  it  if  Time 
Damned  this  fair  city  in  the  days  of  old? 

She  stands  regenerate,  as  the  home  of  you ! 

XXXIII 

As  the  rank  refuse  of  the  city  goes 

Out  to  the  sea,  that  maketh  all  things  clean, 
So  past  your  doorway  all  her  folly  flows, 
Rubbish  purged  pure  by  one  redeeming  rose : — 

Paris  and  Hell,  but  your  face  in  between! 

Upon  that  ground  where  rose  the  guillotine 
Your  slender  feet,  like  benedictions,  fall. 

With  this  redress  the  grim  Fates  intervene : — 
The  past  is  naught,  dear  love,  and  you  are  all ! 

Paris  is  pure  since  your  pure  eyes  she  knows. 

17 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXXIV 

And  it  was  Paris  fully  roused  me  first 

From  that,  my  torpor.     Flashing  on  the  scene 
With  nimble  feet,  this  dearest  dancer  burst 
Upon  my  sight,  within  her  eyes  such  thirst 

As  dares  and  damns,  a  rose  her  lips  between. 

Girdled  with  jewels,  crowned  as  is  a  queen, 
With  Lethe's  poppies  dozing  in  her  hair, 

Gowned  in  thin  stuffs  of  silver-dotted  sheen, 
Humanly  sinful,  and  divinely  fair, 

She  tore  the  mask  from  off  my  best  and  worst ! 

XXXV 

I  know  not  how  it  was  she  spun  that  spell 

Which  made  me  see,  who  had  been  blind  so  long, 
Or  with  what  kiss  aroused ;  nor  can  I  tell 
How  such  a  one  as  she  contrived  so  well 

To  tempt  my  weakness  and  to  leave  me  strong. 

Some  note  there  was  in  her  compellant  song 
That  made  me  man  who  had  been  boy  till  then, 

And  hurled  the  idler  in  among  the  throng, 
Frontward  to  fight  his  way  with  other  men, 

Scale  highest  Heaven,  and  plumb  profoundest  Hell. 
18 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXXVI 

But  this  I  know : — she  flung  the  gauntlet  true, 

And  at  the  challenge  fear  shrank  back  ashamed : 
Hope,  silver-armored,  roused  herself  anew, 
A  blast  upon  the  brazen  trumpet  blew, 

And  at  the  call  my  hand  the  gage  reclaimed. 

Wounded,  mayhap,  in  earlier  combats  maimed, 
Yet,  as  of  old,  with  my  escutcheon  clean, 

A  space  I  sought,  where  red  the  pennants  flamed, 
To  see  the  seat  of  Love  and  Beauty's  queen, — 

And  from  the  past  leaned  out  the  thought  of  you ! 

XXXVII 

You  stepped  into  my  life  once  more,  and  lo ! 

The  well-drilled  steeds  tore  loose  from  every  rein : 
They  whom  the  years  had  taught  so  meek  to  go 
Felt  the  old  breezes  past  their  nostrils  blow, 

And  whirled  Love's  chariot  to  the  fore  again ! 

Afresh  I  knew  the  rapture  and  the  pain 
Of  your  dear  voice,  so  kind,  so  unconcerned ; 

Despite  my  will,  the  incense,  quenched  in  vain, 
With  sweeter  perfume  on  your  altars  burned, 

And  gowned  in  gray  the  temple  columns'  snow. 

19 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XXXVIII 

For  siren  Paris  with  her  tenderest  smile 

Had  failed  to  blot  the  old  songs  from  the  score. 
The  every  glamor  and  the  every  wile 
Of  this  most  sovereign  sorceress  of  guile 

But  left  the  tempted  truer  than  before ! 

Loving  I  lost,  regaining,  loved  the  more : — 
What  ne'er  I  learned  from  sweet  propinquity, 

My  exile  taught.     Blindness  I  begged  her  for : — 
She  touched  my  eyes,  and  showed  them  how  to  see, 

And  how  that  they  had  been  but  blind  erewhile. 

XXXIX 

Upon  that  day  hope  turned  one  golden  grain 

Of  purest  promise  from  the  loam  of  toil, 
Significant  of  some  yet  hidden  vein 
Beneath,  and  by  the  signal  bade  me  gain 

What  lay  unmined  below  the  stubborn  soil. 

As  if  by  magic,  cleared  of  ruck  and  roil, 
The  spring  of  Life  grew  undefiled  and  pure, 

And,  limpid  lying,  freed  of  all  turmoil, 
Mirrored  your  face,  immutable  and  sure, 

And  then  I  knew  that  we  should  meet  again. 
20 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XL 

Oh,  clad  in  all  a  dream's  unstable  guise, 

And  unsubstantial  as  the  veriest  air, 
Thenceforward  hung  your  presence  on  my  eyes, 
Worthy  of  all  and  any  sacrifice, 

Pale,  but  beyond  my  maddest  memory  fair! 

Walked  I  by  day,  the  phantom  form  was  there ; 
Slept  I,  its  radiance  on  my  dreams  was  cast, 

Teaching  me  mutely  how  I  might  prepare 
To  be,  when  we  should  meet  again  at  last, 

More  pure,  more  humble,  worthier, — and  more  wise, 

XLI 

No  longer  toy  of  each  most  idle  whim, 

But  unto  nobler  aims  apprentice  made, 
I  filled  my  duty's  chalice  to  the  brim, 
And  daily  drank  my  portion,  good  or  grim ; — 

So  was  Hope's  stirring  summons  well  obeyed. 

And,  grew  I  ever  of  the  end  afraid, 
Despaired  I  of  my  ultimate  design, 

In  that  dark  hour,  when  most  I  needed  aid, 
As  if  my  draught  grew  stimulant  with  wine, 

Your  promised  lips  hallowed  the  goblet's  rim. 
21 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XLII 

Love,  to  all  men  that  loathe  their  lives  to-day 

I  fain  would  give  of  those  rapt  years  a  part ; 
Of  all  the  words  I  dreamt  I  heard  you  say, 
I  could  spare  some  to  cheer  the  hapless  way 

Of  every  mortal  who  is  sick  at  heart. 

Of  hope  and  honor  all  the  cruel  mart 
I  fain  would  have  one  rose  relieve  the  gloom, 

Appeasing  the  unutterable  smart 
With  one  sweet  breath  of  that  self-same  perfume 

That  turned  my  own  December  into  May. 

XLIII 

And  yet — and  yet — let  the  great  world  go  past ! 

God  holds  within  the  hollow  of  His  hand 
Each  scourged  pariah,  down-trodden,  and  outclassed, 
Who  pauses  at  the  steep  abyss,  aghast ; — 

His  will  we  cannot  hope  to  understand. 

Only  of  all  good  things  that  He  hath  planned, 
And  all  that  in  the  future  He  may  send, 

There  is  no  further  boon  that  I  demand, 
Since  I  have  this — that  half  I  comprehend — 

That  I  have  held  you  to  my  heart  at  last ! 

22 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XLIV 

I  know  that  I  am  worthier  to-day 

Of  your  consent  than  in  that  long  ago 
When  first  I  loved  you.     All  the  winding  way 
Was  somehow  shot  with  an  enlightening  ray 

That  taught  me  things  that  I  had  need  to  know. 

At  every  step  there  lay  some  sign,  to  show 
How  best  to  win  you,  where  I  had  but  lost : 

The  years  were  stern  and  merciless,  but  oh, 
With  you  the  prize,  how  little  seems  the  cost : — 

'T  were  in  my  heart  tenfold  the  price  to  pay! 

XLV 

I  often  wondered  if  you  ever  guessed 

How  over  leagues  of  sea  your  influence  sped, 

How  in  my  every  mood  of  vague  unrest 

Completest  calm  crept  close  against  my  breast, 
Night  lightened,  and  the  dawn  was  mine  instead : 
And  if,  perchance,  when,  woven  thread  by  thread, 

My  rhyme-linked  thoughts  lay  on  some  printed  page, 
They  came  unto  your  hand,  and,  as  you  read, 

You  knew  them  birds  bred  in  your  soul's  pure  cage, 
That  I  had  kissed,  and  given  again  the  West. 

23 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XLVI 

Rereading  these,  I  mind  me  well  what  night 

Saw  each  first  flutter  to  my  eager  hand, 
How  to  my  heart  I  held  the  wanderer  tight, 
Smoothed  its  soft  wings,  all  ruffled  by  the  flight, 
And  strove  each  timid  note  to  understand. 

0  sweet  unconscious  breeder  of  the  band, 
Let  others  say  my  thoughts  are  all  my  own ! 

1  know  them  nestlings  of  my  native  land, 
Whose  songs  were  taught  by  you  and  you  alone : 

All  I  can  do  is  note  the  strains  aright. 

XLVII 

I  love  them  all  so  well  that  I  would  fain 

Believe  you  held  their  songs  as  dear  as  I, 
That  on  your  memory  may  perchance  have  lain 
Some  one  or  two  of  all  the  rhythmic  train 

That  you  inspired,  and  I  taught  how  to  fly. 

Could  I  but  know  that  some  so  softly  lie 
In  that  most  silken  nest,  I  were  content ! 

Ah,  tell  me  some  sang  true  in  brushing  by 
The  only  ear  for  which  their  songs  were  meant, 

And  made  the  meaning  of  my  message  plain. 

24 


The  Garden  of  Years 

XLVIII 

For  this  the  curse  of  those  that  tempt  the  pen  :— 

Where  thousands  read,  one  eye  may  never  see 
The  thoughts  that  are  but  lifeless  creatures,  when 
Taken  into  the  myriad  hearts  of  men, 

If  one  intended  ear  heed  not  the  plea. 

What  though  I  knew  that,  in  mine  own  degree, 
I  had  made  lips  to  laugh  and  eyes  to  weep  ? 

Rather  that  one  unworthy  word  from  me 
Within  your  heart  should  sleep,  and  wake,  and  sleep 

All  I  have  done  were  worth  the  labor  then. 

XLIX 

Heart  of  my  heart,  what  all  the  world  may  do 

To  blot  my  name  or  keep  its  memory  green 
Is  naught.     I  crave  not  to  be  of  the  few 
Who,  unforgotten,  thread  the  ages  through 

And  lordlier  laurels  with  each  cycle  glean. 

Grant  me  but  this,  whereon  my  life  may  lean : 
As  once  I  saw  you  in  your  bonny  way 

Your  mirror  kiss,  that  stood  two  flowers  between, 
Let  these,  my  pages,  the  reflector  play, 

And  kiss  again  what  mirrors  only  you ! 

25 


The  Garden  of  Years 


Dearest,  to  me  come  oftentimes  at  night 

Pictures,  wherein  I  find  you  fitly  framed — 
Shores  of  strange  seas,  incomparably  bright, 
And  hill-girt  landscapes,  haloed  with  a  light 

Ethereal,  that  none  hath  ever  named. 

No  ownership  in  these  I  could  have  claimed : 
They  are  not  of  my  making.     Love  alone 

Could  so  blind  Nature,  utterly  ashamed, 
With  beauty  thus  out-rivalling  her  own, 

That  seems  transcendent  to  our  mortal  sight. 

LI 

For  I  am  not  of  those  who,  in  their  dreams, 

Are  wont  to  rank  their  love  with  simple  things, 
With  humble  flowers,  babble  of  vapid  streams, 
Or  that  rare  note  of  rapture  that  redeems 

The  idle  gossip  that  the  blackbird  sings. 

The  grim  old  earth  hath  seen  too  many  springs, 
Lovers  enough  have  trapped  her  charm  in  words : 

To  all  her  flowers  the  mould  of  usage  clings, 
And,  to  the  music  of  her  weary  birds, 

The  burden  of  reiterated  themes. 
26 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LII 

This  love  of  ours  doth  wonderfully  dwell 
In  new  demesnes,  born  when  it  first  arose ; 

Treads  the  young  turf  of  some  yet  virgin  dell, 

Where  novel  buds  miraculously  swell 

On  trees  not  known  before,  and  where  unclose 
Unprecedented  vistas.     Where  it  goes, 

Strange  birds  invent  unwonted  melodies, 
That  in  all  earth  no  other  lover  knows 

Save  our  two  selves  alone,  for  each  of  these 
Sounds  a  fresh  note,  as  of  a  new-wrought  bell. 

LIII 

I  cannot  tell  in  words  what  lands  these  are 

Through  which  I  see  you  moving  like  a  queen: 
There  is  no  earthly  radiance  like  that  star 
That  stands  in  silent  majesty,  afar, 

The  peaks  of  unfamiliar  hills  between. 

Some  unknown  pigment  turns  the  tender  green 
Of  all  that  dreaming  landscape  to  a  hue 

That  never  was,  save  in  the  lovely  scene 
That  Love  hath  only  planned  for  framing  you, 

And  that  no  mortal  hand  could  make  or  mar. 
27 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LIV 

There  is  a  sheen  in  those  soft  gowns  you  wear 

Like  water  turned  to  opal  by  the  moon ; 
A  lustre  in  those  jewels  that  you  bear, 
Twined  in  and  out  amid  your  dusky  hair, 

Like  the  still  stars,  and  like  the  blaze  of  noon. 

There  is  a  perfume  of  some  sweeter  June 
Than  earth  hath  seen,  that  follows  where  you  go ; 

And  all  the  solemn  silence  is  atune 
With  unvoiced  songs,  such  as  the  angels  know, 

Born  without  breath  upon  the  breathless  air ! 

LV 

We  may  not  hope  to  find  each  other  thus 

In  waking  hours.     Our  days  are  too  beset 
With  the  world's  voices,  shrill  and  clamorous: 
Life  is  too  sharply  strained,  too  strenuous — 

We  are  but  mortal,  and  we  may  forget ! 

The  momentary  pang  of  some  regret 
May  lay  its  hand  an  instant  on  your  eyes 

And  mine,  dear  heart,  and  cloud  our  vision — yet 
Remember  that  with  earthly  fears  and  sighs 

We  two  have  naught  to  do,  nor  they  with  us. 
28 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LVI 

What  though  unbidden  tears  may  turn  us  blind? 

Twilight  still  comes,  and  still  brings  sweet  release 
Merciful  night,  in  spite  of  all,  shall  find 
Us  waiting  each  for  each,  for  sleep  is  kind, 

And  moulds  from  sorrow's  clay  the  cup  of  peace. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  drink  deep  of  that  surcease 
That  at  her  goblet's  rim  divinely  gleams: 

Whate'er  may  be  deceptive  day's  caprice, 
I  wait  you  on  the  borderland  of  dreams, 

Where  the  world  stumbles  and  is  left  behind ! 

LVII 

And,  through  my  visions  as  you  thread  your  way, 

Girt  with  that  grace  my  eyes  alone  may  see, 
If  I  make  bold  your  noiseless  steps  to  stay, 
It  is  because  in  sleep  alone  I  may 

Be  half  to  you  of  all  that  I  would  be. 

It  is  because  my  longing  lips,  set  free, 
Can  compass  then  alone  each  subtle  phrase, 

And  snare  in  speech  that  magic  melody 
Which,  since  your  coming,  sings  adown  my  days. 

Only  in  sleep  my  lips  my  heart  obey. 

29 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LVIII 

And  who  shall  say  but  what  our  dreams  may  tell 

Some  secret  we  were  hardly  meant  to  know, 
As  if  a  feather  from  a  rapt  lark  fell, 
To  say  that  in  high  heaven  all  things  are  well, 

However  black  the  heart  of  man  below? 

If  through  my  visions  thus  you  nightly  go, 
Robed  round  with  love,  may  not  my  dreaming  mean 

That  some  day  we  may  wander  to  and  fro 
In  unknown  meadows  gowned  in  such  a  green 

As  all  the  fields  of  earth  cannot  excel? 

LIX 

Ah,  love,  there  is  a  pledge  of  keener  bliss 

In  these  unbidden  dreams  of  sleeping  hours, 
That  set  all  right  that  may  have  been  amiss, 
And  lend  us  wings  to  clear  whate'er  abyss 

Darkly  across  our  waking  pathway  glowers. 

There  is  some  promise  in  these  strange  new  flowers 
Holier  than  we  have  dreamt  of  or  have  planned ; 

Some  fairer  fate  eternally  is  ours : — 
Only  it  is  so  hard  to  understand. 

You  love  me!     Are  there  greater  things  than  this? 
30 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LX 

I  think  that  in  the  past,  unheard,  unseen, 
All  influences  of  the  earth  and  air, 

The  gleam  of  water,  and  the  forest's  green, 

Have  spun  some  cobweb  sympathy  between 
Our  hearts,  now  one  in  rinding  them  so  fair: 
That  every  sunset  taught  us  to  prepare 

For  the  pure  dawn  when  Love  was  sure  to  rise ; 
That  every  cloud  but  made  us  more  aware 

That  soon  or  late  his  sun  would  greet  our  eyes, 
And  all  our  heaven  be  cloudless  and  serene ! 

LXI 

Else,  how  should  we  have  come  to  understand 

The  perfect  meaning  of  this  perfect  day? 
How  could  this  hour,  unbidden  and  unplanned, 
Bring  in  its  train  such  infinite  command 

Of  all  the  things  we  do  not  need  to  say? 

It  is  too  soon,  mayhap,  to  trace  the  way 
By  which  we  came,  guided  by  birds  and  flowers, 

To  the  full  knowledge  of  the  joys  of  May : — 
We  can  retrace  the  path  in  later  hours, 

And  all  our  haunts  revisit,  hand  in  hand. 

31 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LXII 

To-night  it  is  enough  for  us  to  know 

That  we  are  one ;  to  know  that,  if  we  will, 
We  may  a  bridge  across  the  darkness  throw, 
Whereon  our  tender  thoughts  may  come  and  go, 

In  silent  love  that  distance  cannot  kill. 

I  only  seek  the  heart-begotten  skill 
To  put  in  simple  words  this  truth  sublime : — 

That  I  have  loved  you,  dearest,  love  you  still, 
And  so  shall  love  you  till  the  end  of  time ! 

It  is  enough  that  what  is  so  is  so. 

LXIH 

Let  me  but  tell  you,  lamely  if  I  must, 

Of  how  I  love  you ;  how,  despite  all  wiles, 
That  tender  flower,  that  in  my  boyhood  thrust 
Its  star-eyed  promise  from  the  barren  dust, 

Still  on  my  path  with  purest  fragrance  smiles ; 

Of  how  my  heart  returns,  through  weary  miles, 
To  that  song-spilling  throng  of  birds  unseen 

Whose  inter-rippling  music  so  beguiles 
All  the  long  hours,  the  dawn  and  dark  between. 

Love,  let  me  place  the  secret  in  your  trust ! 

32 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LXIV 

I  loved  you  first,  I  know  not  how  or  where : — 

The  world  began  upon  the  day  we  met ! 
Truth's  self  slept  in  your  eyes ;  and  in  your  hair 
The  sun  lay  trapped,  as  in  a  silken  snare : 

The  tinkle  of  some  crystal  fountain's  jet 

Sang  in  your  voice ;  a  hint  of  violet 
Slept  on  your  breath,  and  dawn's  divinest  glow 

Flushed  your  soft  cheek — but  ah,  more  tender  yet 
The  ivory  of  your  throat's  ascending  snow ! 

I  loved  you  first  when  first  I  found  you  fair. 

LXV 

Could  you  but  guess  how  like  the  dawn  you  grew 

Upon  my  east,  slow  as  such  dawnings  will ! 
Spell-bound  and  breathless,  diademed  with  dew, 
My  sunless  world  its  sudden  sovereign  knew ; 

And  all  the  fern- fringed  forest  waited,  still. 

Slow  spread  the  glory  on  the  distant  hill, 
From  that  faint  early  flush  grown  clear  and  strong, 

And  then,  with  one  divinely  daring  thrill, 
A  single  bird  unleashed  its  soul  in  song, 

And  swung  exultant  upward  in  the  blue ! 

33 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LXVI 

I  loved  you  first  because,  when  first  you  stood 

Upon  the  threshold  of  my  world  new-born, 
That  strange  new  note  I  dimly  understood 
Leapt  laughing  from  the  bosom  of  the  wood 

Straight  to  the  arms  of  my  supremest  morn ! 

Because  your  clear  eyes,  innocent  of  scorn, 
Swept  infinite  horizons  into  view ; 

And  the  gray  hazes,  from  their  moorings  torn, 
Revealed  wide  fields  that  thenceforth,  knowing  you, 

It  was  for  me  to  till  for  gain  and  good. 

LXVII 

Yet  was  I  blind  to  all  the  better  part 
Of  morning's  mute  miraculous  intent. 

That  spell  you  wove  about  me  at  the  start, 

Conjured  to  life  by  simple  beauty's  art, 
Told  but  a  tithe  of  all  the  truth  it  meant: 
And  all  the  higher  purpose  that  you  lent 

Unto  my  life,  went  wrapped  within  a  veil. 
Uneloquent,  the  message  that  was  sent, 

Wan  with  desire  of  speech,  stood,  proud  and  pale, 
Outside  the  holiest  holy  of  my  heart. 

34 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LXVIII 

The  chiefest  lessons  Life  makes  clear  are  those 

She  teaches  most  at  leisure.     Sure  and  slow 
Successive  leaves  of  her  wise  book  unclose ; 
And,  day  by  day,  the  vital  story  grows 

To  consummation,  till  we  come  to  know 

Its  perfect  purport.     All  that  lay  below 
The  rapture  of  my  earliest  glimpse  of  you 

Only  that  stoic  tutor  Time  could  show : — 
Long  evenings  of  reiterated  dew 

Alone  perfect  the  perfume  of  the  rose ! 

LXIX 

The  patient  years  polished  with  practised  hand 

Love's  crystal  to  a  smooth  symmetric  swell, 
Till  the  curved  lens  lay,  accurately  planned, 
Flawlessly  fitted  to  the  brazen  band 

Within  whose  compass  it  was  meant  to  dwell. 

Then  from  my  eyes  the  scales  of  blindness  fell : 
Undreamt-of  planets  swam  into  my  ken, 

And  new-mapped  heavens  with  stars  made  haste  to  spell 
The  meaning  of  the  message  that,  till  then, 

It  was  not  in  my  power  to  understand. 

35 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LXX 

I  love  you  now,  not  with  the  love  alone 

Of  blind  rebellious  boyhood,  as  of  old : 
The  blooms  of  mere  enchantment,  beauty-blown, 
Lie  withered,  and  the  full  fruit,  slowlier  grown, 

Bends  the  slim  bough  beneath  unmeasured  gold. 

The  sun,  of  these  new  secrets,  Time  hath  told — 
The  tempests  of  communicative  tears — 

The  strong,  blind  winds  of  passion — and  behold 
The  careful  cultivation  of  the  years 

Hath  made  a  harvest  of  what  Love  hath  sown. 

LXXI 

I  love  you  now,  because  that  I  and  you 

Were  complements  before  the  birth  of  Time ; 
Because  our  souls  have  come,  the  ages  through, 
Down  to  the  moment  when  God's  purpose  drew 

The  twain  together  in  one  perfect  rhyme ; 

Because  that  I  have  made  Love's  aria  climb 
The  scales  that  every  subtler  phrase  involved, 

Until  I  struck  the  seventh  chord  sublime, 
And  one  low  word  upon  your  lips  resolved 

My  melody,  beyond  all  music  new.' 

36 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LXXII 

You  are  the  magnet  moon,  and  I  the  sea, 

Cradling  her  face,  climbing  to  catch  more  clear 

The  image  of  her  pure  tranquillity : 

You  are  the  west-wind,  mistress  of  the  lea, 
And  I  the  reed,  that  bows  when  she  is  near : 
You  are  the  spring,  and  I  the  obedient  year 

Whose  soul  awakens  where  her  footfalls  go : 
You  are  the  stream,  and  I  a  leaf,  to  veer 

Where'er  the  singing  current  choose  to  flow  : — 
O  light  and  breath,  perfume  and  melody ! 

LXXIII 

I  love  you  for  your  lips  the  rose  hath  kissed — 
Your  cheeks,  more  tender  than  arbutus  blooms ; 

For  those  half-hidden  veins  of  amethyst 

In  your  white  throat,  and  for  the  tender  mist 

That  clouds  your  eyes,  as  haze  the  autumn  glooms 
For  that  faint  subtle  fragrance  which  perfumes 

The  soft  bewitching  tangle  of  your  hair ; 

For  your  low  laughter  in  the  darkening  rooms, 

Where  our  instinctive  hands  lie  linked,  and  where 
Daylight  and  dark  keep  transitory  tryst ! 

37 


The  Garden  of  Years 

LXXIV 

Life  of  my  love,  love  of  my  life,  in  vain 

I  marshall  every  phrase  that  speech  supplies : 
The  summits  of  my  meaning  yet  remain 
Cloud-capped,  above  the  flat  familiar  plain 

Of  spoken  thought,  unsealed  against  the  skies ! 

The  mute  interrogation  of  your  eyes 
My  own  must  mutely  meet.     Ah,  touch  my  hand, 

And,  like  a  child,  instruct  me  in  what  wise 
I  may  contrive  to  make  you  understand 

The  love  that  aught  but  silence  must  profane! 

PARIS,  1901. 


The  White  Republic 

OF  Pilgrim  eyes  previsioned  and  Puritan  lips  foretold, 
Dowered  with  wealth  of  woodland  and  glory  of 

virgin  gold, 

Awoke  the  White  Republic,  the  gift  of  the  Lord  Most  High, 
As  broad  and  free  as  the  borders  be  of  her  own  wide  western 

sky! 
Mother   of   loyal   daughters,  whose   girdle   and  guard  are 

these— 
Their   leagues   of    inland  waters  and  bulwarks  of  splendid 

seas, 

Each  to  the  other  plighted  till  the  end  of  time  they  stand, 
Palmetto  to  pine  united  and  prairie  to  pasture-land. 

She  hath  store  of  grain  ungarnered  and  harvests  her  sons 

have  sown, 
She  is  jewelled  with  mines  unminted  whose   measure   no 

man  hath  known, 

39 


The  White  Republic 

And  the  light  of  her  eyes  is  steady,  and  her  onward  march 

is  free, 
For  it  knows  no  rest,  but  is  like  the  quest  of  her  rivers  that 

seek  the  sea. 

Upward  and  on  she  presses  with  a  zeal  no  check  may  rein, 
With  a  strength  no  shock  may  shatter  while  her  seasons 

wake  and  wane ; 
Nerved  of  her  stirring  stories  of  the  deeds  and  the  deaths 

of  men, 
She  wins  for  greater  glories  till  the  lapse  of  human  ken. 

Her  breath  is  sweet  of  the  southland  and  the  fragile  jasmine 

blows, 

On  her  brow  is  the  excellent  whiteness  of  still  Sierra  snows, 
And  her  feet  are  shod  with  the  mosses  of  the  murmurous 

woodland  ways, 
And  her  head  is  crowned  and  her  temples  bound  by  fillets 

of  slender  maize : 

As  the  wild  Atlantic  fearless,  as  the  hushed  Pacific  calm, 
She  rules  her  rugged  hilltops  and  her  breathless  groves  of 

palm; 
And,  whether  in  waste  or  city,  with  freedom  her  shining 

shield, 

40 


The  White  Republic 

She  is  queen  by  right  of  her  splendid  might  and  the  love 
her  children  yield. 

And  on  through  the  unrun  ages,  through  stormy  and  sunlit 

days, 

Still  shall  the  crescent  pages  of  history  sing  her  praise, 
As  by  ways  of  strife  and  burden  to  the  goal  of  strife's  sur- 
cease 
She  pursues  the  priceless  guerdon,  the  dawn  of  a  deathless 

peace — 

The  wise  and  wonderful  mother  of  states  and  states  to  be, 
Guarded  and  well  defended  of  the  sons  who  made  her  free, 
Of  the  sons  who  learned  to  love  her,   and  of  loving  her 

learned  to  die 

For  the  flag  of  the  White  Republic,  the  gift  of  the  Lord 
Most  High ! 

NEW  YORK,  1897. 


Rex  Captivus 

(THE  EAGLE'S  CAGE,  CENTRAL  PARK) 

A    MERICANS   if   ye  be,   who  stand  surrounding  my 
/"\     prison, 
Has  the  sight  of  me,  caged  and  cowed,  no  hint  of  the 

past  to  say, 
Of  the  days  when  ye  chose  me  symbol  of  Freedom  the 

New-arisen? 
Free  ye  found  me,  and  King  ye  crowned  me, 

And  what  is  your  King  to-day? 

Shackled  for  fools  to  laugh  at,  shorn  of  defence  and  defiance, 
Tainted  and  reeking  with  filth  in  this  barred,  unspeakable 

slough, 
Behold  the  sign  of  a  creed  divine,  the  bird  of  your  faith's 

reliance ! 

Polluted  and  shamed,  the  King  ye  acclaimed 
Recalls  your  allegiance  now ! 

42 


Rex  Captivus 

Born  to  be  Prince  of  the  Air,  and  the  great  Sun's  peer  and 

brother, 
Who  alone  might  meet  his  eye  in  the  infinite  heights  of 

blue, 
Butt  of  the  vulgar  and  lewd,   in  the  ruck  of  my  pen   I 

smother : 

Yet  King !     Ye  have  said  it !     Is  my  discredit 
Not  greater  disgrace  for  you  ? 

Men — if  ye  still  be  men,  not  blind,  unreasoning  cattle — 
See  what  the  work  of  your  hands  hath  made  of  the  work 

of  God ! 
These  tabid  things  were  once  such  wings  as  flash  on  your 

flags  in  battle, 
And  benisons  put  on  every  foot 

Of  your  hardly-ransomed  sod ! 

To  me  the  faith  of  your  fathers  its  resolute  eyes  uplifted, 
I  poised  on  your  earliest  banners,  I  routed  your  youngest 

foe, 

I  was  borne  in  your  van  of  late,  where  the  Spanish  smoke- 
bank  drifted : — 
Is  all  forgotten,  that,  smirched  and  rotten, 

You  make  of  me  squalid  show? 

43 


Rex  Captivus 

I  am  stained  with  blood  of  your  sons,  and  armored  with 

prayers  of  your  daughters, 

To  me  your  defenders  point  as  sign  of  their  aim  most  true, 
On  the  prows  of  your  mail-clad  ships  I  sail  to  guard  your 

conquered  waters: 
O  sons  of  the  West,  will  ye  sully  your  crest 

With  this  hideous  thing  ye  do? 

Nay !     By  the  oath  ye  swore,  by  the  pledge  of  your  ancient 

duty, 
By  the  blood  ye  spilled  for  my  honor,  I  bid  you  to  bend 

the  knee ! 

Yield  me  my  place  again,  in  its  purity,  pride,  and  beauty ! 
Men  of  my  nation,  is  this  my  station? 

I  summon  you,  set  me  free ! 
Let  there  be  one  rift  in  the  cloud  of  man's  world-wide 

dominion, 
One  thing  of  all  breathing  things  that  he  bids  no  hand 

molest ! 
Let  Liberty's  sky  be  hallowed  by  the  beat  of  the  eagle's 

pinion, 
By  her  sons  released,  from  the  earliest  east 

To  the  shores  of  the  farthest  west ! 

44 


Rex  Captivus 

Else  am  I  king  no  more,  acclaimed  of  bugle  and  tymbal ; 
No  longer  Bird  of  the  Free,   but,  palsied,  defiled,  and 

sore; 
Leave  me  to  dream  on  the  days  when  ye  hailed  me  Liberty's 

symbol, 
On  how  I  led  you,  to  victory  sped  you, 

And  how  ye  are  mine  no  more ! 
Are  ye  blind,  American  men,  that  ye  pass  me,  caged  and 

pining? 
Are  ye  deaf,  American  men,  to  that  daring  and  distant 

cry, 
The  cheer  of  your  sons,  above  their  guns,  for  the  bird  on 

your  banners  shining, 
For  the  world  to  see? — Ah,  God  of  the  Free, 

That  symbol  and  sign  am  I ! 
NEW  YORK,  1901. 


45 


Ad  Finem  Fideles 

FAR  out,  far  out  they  lie.     Like  stricken  women  weep- 
ing, 

Eternal  vigil  keeping  with  slow  and  silent  tread — 
Soft-shod  as  are  the  fairies,  the  winds  patrol  the  prairies, 
The  sentinels  of  God  about  the  pale  and  patient  dead ! 
Above  them,  as  they  slumber  in  graves  that  none  may 

number, 
Dawns  grow  to  day,  days  dim  to  dusk,   and  dusks  in 

darkness  pass ; 

Unheeded  springs  are  born,  unheeded  summers  brighten, 
And  winters  wake  to  whiten  the  wilderness  of  grass. 

Slow  stride  appointed  years  across  their  bivouac  places, 
With  stern,  devoted  faces  they  lie,  as  when  they  lay, 

In  long  battalions  dreaming,  till  dawn,  to  eastward  gleaming, 
Awoke  the  clarion  greeting  of  the  bugles  to  the  day. 

The  still  and  stealthy  speeding  of  the  pilgrim  days  un- 
heeding, 

46 


Ad  Finem  Fideles 

At  rest  upon  the  roadway  that  their  feet  unfaltering  trod, 
The  faithful  unto  death  abide,  with  trust  unshaken, 

The  morn  when  they  shall  waken  to  the  reveille  of  God. 

The  faithful  unto  death !     Their  sleeping-places  over 

The  torn  and  trampled  clover  to  braver  beauty  blows ; 
Of  all  their  grim  campaigning  no  sight  or  sound  remaining, 

The  memory  of  them  mutely  to  greater  glory  grows. 
Through  waning  ages  winding,  new  inspiration  finding, 

Their  creed  of  consecration  like  a  silver  ribbon  runs, 
Sole  relic  of  the  strife  that  woke  the  world  to  wonder 

With  riot  and  the  thunder  of  a  sundered  people's  guns. 

What  matters  now  the  cause?    As  little  children  resting, 

No  more  the  battle  breasting  to  the  rumble  of  the  drums, 
Enlinked  by  duty's  tether,  the  blue  and  gray  together, 

They  wait  the  great  hereafter  when  the  last  assembly 

comes. 

Where'er  the  summons  found  them,  whate'er  the  tie  that 
bound  them, 

'T  is  this  alone  the  record  of  the  sleeping  army  saith : — 
They  knew  no  creed  but  this,  in  duty  not  to  falter, 

With  strength  that  naught  could  alter  to  be  faithful  unto 

death. 

NEW  YORK,  1898. 

47 


When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In 

(NEW  YORK  HARBOR,  AUGUST  2O,  1898) 

TO  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  mapless 
miles  of  sea, 

On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  furthermost 
isles  are  free ; 

And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer,  harbor,  and  height, 
and  hill, 

Breaker  and  beach  cry,  each  to  each,  "'T  is  the  Mother 
who  calls!  Be  still!" 

Mother!  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold  from  harm, 

Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her  sover- 
eign arm, 

Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons,  who  bade  her 
navies  roam, 

Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who  calls  them 
this  time  home ! 


When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In 


And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary  watchers 

rest; 
The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep  in  the 

golden  west 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 
And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened  stars ! 
Peace !     As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannonade, 
Peace  at  last!    is  the  bugle-blast  the  length  of  the  long 

blockade ; 

And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release, 
From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  ' '  Peace !     Thank 

God  for  peace ! ' ' 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 

The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade  them 

rise  and  go ; 

How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  children's  ear, 
South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and  the  whole  land 

answered  "Here!  " 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of  the 

sailor's  song 
Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should  meet 

with  wrong, 

4  49 


When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In 

Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then,  on  the 

decks  they  trod, 
Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the  grace  of  their 

country's  God ! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and  free, 

To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  sea, 

To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay,  where  the  enemy  lies  in 
wait, 

To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her  across  the 
strait : — 

But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round  heads 
for  home, 

And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl  of  seeth- 
ing foam, 

And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet  the  men 
who  win ! 

Thank  God  for  peace!  Thank  God  for  peace,  when  the 
great  gray  ships  come  in ! 


5° 


Tripoli 


ONE  to  ten  of  you  lesser  men — these  are  the  odds  we 
crave  : 
For  the  ring  of  the  sword,  at  the  cry  to  board,  is  a  song 

that  befits  the  brave. 
Board  and  burn,  that  ye  well  may  learn,  how  American  tars 

atone  : 

Borrow  ye  may,  but  there  dawns  a  day  when  we  come  to  claim 
our  own  ! 

Tripolitan  pirate  and  Turkish  thief,  they  had  harried  her 

there  on  the  sunken  reef, 

Plundered,  and  robbed,  and  stripped  her  crew,  for  such 
was  Tripoli  law: 

Lowered  her  barred  and  star-set  flag,  and  run  to  her  peak 

their  pirate  rag, 

For  the  shaming  of  William  Bainbridge  and  the  fame  of 
Jussuf  Bashaw! 

They  had  towed  the  wreck  to  the  haven's  neck,  and  under 
the  castle's  guns, 

And  bound  and  jailed  all  them  that  sailed  as  the  Philadel- 
phia s  sons : 

51 


Tripoli 

So  the  frigate  lay  in  Tripoli  Bay,  by  the  Molehead  batteries 
pinned, 

And  along  her  flank,  in  a  watchful  rank,  the  guardian  gun- 
boats grinned ! 

Out  of  the  Gulf  of  Sidra's  gales,  a  brig  and  a  ketch,  with 

flattened  sails, 

Slid  toward  Tripoli  harbor  as  the  sun  ahead  went  down, 
And,  by  the  forts  of  Jussuf  Bashaw  pinned  like  prey  in  a 

panther's  paw, 
The  captured  frigate  at  anchor  saw,  in  the  curve  of  the 

pirate  town. 
And  one  of  the  pair  had  the  peaceful  air  of  a  merchantman 

landward  led, 
And  one  of  the  two  a  Maltese  crew,  in  fezzes  of  flaming 

red; 
But  they  muttered  on  deck  as  they  marked  the  speck  of  the 

flag  that  swung  on  high 
Where  the  crimson  bars  and  the  silver  stars  had  rippled 

against  the  sky ! 

Then  a  wind  came  out  of  the  cool  northwest,  and  lifted  the 
ketch  on  a  heaving  crest, 
52 


Tripoli 

Bulging  her  sails  till  the  sea  sang  low  at  the  touch  of  her 

slender  prore, 
And  she  leapt,  with  the  joy  of  a  living  soul,  through  the 

narrow  channel  'twixt  reef  and  shoal, 
And  ran,  like  a  racer,  toward  the  goal  of  the  tall  black 

hull  inshore ! 
But  the  brig  lay  to  on  the  darkening  blue  of  the  offing,  a 

mile  outside, 

And  watched  the  ketch  on  the  rippling  stretch  of  the  fort- 
girt  harbor  ride, 
Till  out  of  the  light  she  slid  from  sight,  tackle,  and  sails, 

and  mast, 
Undismayed,   in   the  sombre  shade  that  the  hull  of  the 

frigate  cast. 

Now  the  staunch  Sicilian  pilot  cried  to  them  that  leaned  on 

the  frigate's  side : 
"This  is  the  Stella  of  Malta,   with  her  anchors  swept 

away, 
And  her  cables,  too,  to  the  very  last,  when  the  storm  of 

yester  night  went  past. 

So  we  crave  your  leave  to  take  a  fast  from  your  quarter 
until  the  day." 

53 


Tripoli 

"And  what  ye  ask  is  an  easy  task,"  an  officer  made 
reply. 

"Since  ye  have  no  line,  I  will  send  you  mine,  with  leave  in 
our  lee  to  lie." 

So  the  ketch  crept  near  to  the  frigate's  sheer,  and,  swung 
by  the  swirling  tide, 

Veered  around,  till  her  bowsprit  ground  on  the  Philadel- 
phia s  side. 

Then  Stephen  Decatur's  slender  sword  in  the  moonlight 

winked,  as  he  thundered  "Board!  " 
The  hatches  yawned  on  the  ketch's  deck,  and,  quick  as  a 

man  may  turn, 
Up  from  her  hold,  with  a  stirring  shout,  sixty  American 

tars  leapt  out, 
And  mounted  the  frigate's  black  redoubt  like  a  wave  that 

breaks  astern ! 
And  the  startled  night  saw  such  a  fight  as  none  but  the 

desperate  make, 

Blow  on  blow  from  foe  to  foe  for  the  Philadelphia's  sake ! 
Cheer  on  cheer,  as  the  end  drew  near,  and  a  final  charge, 

and  then 
The  frigate  lay  in  Tripoli  Bay — an  American  ship  again ! 

54 


Tripoli 

From  twoscore  ports  the  smoke-wreaths  crept,  and  a  single 

rocket  skyward  leapt 
To  tell  the  brig  in  the  offing  that  Decatur's  work  was 

done, 
As  the  victors  sprang  to  the  ketch's  deck,  and  pulled  away 

from  the  blazing  wreck 
That  reddened  the  tide  to  the  harbor's  neck,  with  news 

of  the  glory  won ! 
And  the  slim  flames  struck  from  rail  to  truck,  till  the  haven 

gleamed  and  glowed, 
And   the   whole  wide  night  was   ablaze   with  light  where 

Decatur's  oarsmen  rowed ; 
While  Tripoli's  sons  from  a  hundred  guns  sent  shot  from 

the  shelving  shore, 

And  the  frigate  replied  with  her  last  broadside — an  Ameri- 
can ship  once  more ! 

But  Stewart  had  seen  that  Decatur's  crew  had  done  the 

work  that  they  came  to  do, 
And  the  boats  of  the  brig  lay  close  inshore,  as  the  ketch 

out-won  her  way ; 
Watching,  the  oarsmen,  drawing  near,  pause  in  their  rowing, 

and,  deaf  to  fear, 

55 


Tripoli 

Rise  to  their  feet  with  a  stunning  cheer  in  a  harbor  light 

as  day ! 
Over  the  tide  from  the  boats  outside  the  answering  cheer 

came  in, 
The  hail  of  his  mate  who  must  watch  and  wait  to  the  lad 

who  may  work  and  win ! 
And  Decatur's  men,  at  their  sweeps  again,  sped  on  from 

the  panther's  paw, 
While  the  frigate  flamed,  by  her  own  reclaimed,  at  the  gates 

of  Jussuf  Bashaw! 

One  to  ten  of  you  lesser  men — these  are  the  odds  we  crave  : 
For  the  ring  of  the  sword,  at  the  cry  to  board,  is  a  song  that 

befits  the  brave. 
Board  and  burn,  that  ye  well  may  learn  how  American  tars 

atone  : 
Borrow  ye  may,  but  there  dawns  a  day  when  we  come  to  claim 

our  own  ! 
NEW  YORK,  1902. 


Gloria  Mundi 

(PARIS,  1900) 

MAGICIAN  hands  through  long,  laborious  nights 
Have  made  these  princely  palaces  to  loom 
Whiter  than  are  the  city's  legion  lights, 

On  threads  unseen  stretched  out  across  the  gloom. 
Reared  in  an  hour,  for  one  brief  hour  to  reign, 

The  proud  pavilions  watchful  hold  in  fee 
A  world's  achievements,  where  the  stately  Seine 
Slides  slowly  past  her  bridges  to  the  sea. 

Mute  and  memorial,  as  on  either  bank 

She  sees  the  marvel  worked  before  her  eyes, 
Beholds  as  in  a  vision,  rank  on  rank, 

Pagoda,  dome,  and  campanile  rise, 
Like  to  a  mother  scowling  on  a  child 

Sceptred  and  crowned  to  make  a  queen  of  May, 
The  Seine,  that  sorrowed  not  for  France  defiled, 

Past  France  triumphant  frowning  goes  her  way. 

57 


Gloria  Mundi 

Yet,  dragged  reluctant  from  these  ransomed  shores, 

Upon  her  tide,  that  sullenly  and  slow 
Creeps  channelward,  the  unapparent  scores 

Of  history's  spectres  disregarded  go ; 
And  as  the  Empress  City  gains  the  seat 

Of  that  imperial  throne  to  which  at  last 
By  devious  ways  she  comes,  beneath  her  feet 

The  Seine  in  silence  blots  away  the  past. 

Blots  out  the  warning  of  cathedral  bells, 

The  night  of  snowy  scarfs,  of  swords,  of  staves, 
The  muffled  bass  of  tumbril  wheels  that  tells 

Of  mortal  men  that  dig  immortal  graves ; 
Blots  out  the  faces,  calmly  unafraid, 

Of  prince  and  peasant,  courtesan  and  queen, 
When  men  made  martyrs  and  were  martyrs  made, 

When  France  meant  Hell  and  God  meant  Guillotine! 

Like  pilgrims  whom  a  holy  city  calls, 
The  peoples  bring  their  miracles  to  her; 

The  world  of  peace  lays  down  within  her  walls 
Its  gifts  of  gold,  and  frankincense,  and  myrrh : 

58 


Gloria  Mundi 

The  West,  wide-eyed,  alert,  intrepid,  young, 
With  rush  of  shuttles  and  the  song  of  steam; 

The  East,  that,  lotus-eating,  gropes  among 
The  half-remembered  fragments  of  her  dream. 

From  minarets  the  muezzins  call  to  prayer, 

From  violins  the  mad  mazurkas  rise, 
And  western  rangers  watch  in  wonder,  where 

The  camel  boy  his  listless  lash  applies : 
And  nations  warring,  or  that  late  have  warred, 

Their  feuds  forgot,  their  battles  under  ban, 
Proclaim  above  the  clamor  of  the  sword 

The  paean  of  the  mastery  of  man. 

Man !     Born  to  grovel  in  a  squalid  cave, 

Whose  hand  it  is  that  every  door  unbars, 
Whose  cables  cleave  three  thousand  miles  of  wave, 

Whose  lenses  tear  their  secrets  from  the  stars ! 
Man !     Naked,  dull,  unarmed,  barbaric,  dumb, 

What  magic  path  is  this  that  he  had  trod? 
Through  what  refining  furnace  hath  he  come, 

This  demi-brute  become  a  demi-god? 

59 


Gloria  Mundi 

As  some  great  river  merges  every  song 

Of  tributary  waters  in  its  own, 
To  blend  in  turn  its  music  in  the  strong 

Full  measure  of  the  ocean's  monotone — 
So  this  triumphant  anthem,  skyward  sent 

Man's  marvellous  finale  to  presage, 
Within  its  thunderous  diapason  blent, 

The  keynote  holds  of  each  succeeding  age! 

For  here  the  whip-lash  sings  above  the  slaves 

Who  bend  despairing  to  the  galley's  oars; 
The  hoarse  hail  rings,  across  the  sunlit  waves, 

Of  vikings  bound  to  unexploited  shores : 
Here  is  the  chant  of  ransomed  Israel's  joy, 

The  moan  of  Egypt  stricken  in  her  home, 
The  challenge  of  the  Grecian  host  to  Troy, 

The  shout  of  Huns  before  the  gates  of  Rome: 

The  oaths  of  sailors  on  the  galleon's  decks, 
The  welcome  of  Columbus  to  the  land, 

The  prayers  upon  the  doomed  Armada's  wrecks, 
The  rallying  cry  of  Braddock's  final  stand ; 
60 


Gloria  Mundi 

Trafalgar's  cannon,  and  the  bugle's  calls 

Where  France's  armies  thread  the  Alpine  gorge, 

The  Campbell's  pipes  heard  near  to  Lucknow's  walls, 
The  patriot's  hymn  that  hallowed  Valley  Forge! 

All,  all  are  here !     The  feeble  and  the  strong ; 

The  spoiled  beside  the  victors  of  the  spoil 
Of  twenty  centuries  swell  the  sacred  song 

Of  human  triumph  won  by  human  toil ! 
Up  and  yet  upward  to  the  heaven's  wide  arch 

The  thunders  of  the  great  thanksgiving  roll 
To  mark  the  way  of  that  majestic  march 

Of  mortal  man  toward  his  Maker's  goal! 

And  while  the  echo  of  her  folly  dies, 

As  in  the  hills  the  sound  of  village  bells, 
Upward  from  Paris  to  the  April  skies 

Her  hymn  of  rehabilitation  swells ; 
From  dark  to  dawn,  from  weakness  back  to  strength, 

The  pendulum  majestically  swings, 
And  o'er  the  ashes  of  her  past  at  length 

The  phcenix  of  her  future  spreads  its  wings ! 


61 


The  Fog 

THE  fog  slunk  down  from  Labrador,  stealthy,  sure,  and 
slow, 

Southwardly  shifting,  far  inshore,  so  never  a  man  might 
know 

How  the  sea  it  trod  with  feet  soft-shod,  watching  the  dis- 
tance dim, 

Where  the  fishing-fleet  to  the  eastward  beat,  white  dots  on 
the  ocean's  rim. 

Feeling  the  sands  with  its  furtive  hands,  fingering  cape  and 
cove, 

Where  the  sweet  salt  smells  of  the  nearer  swells  up  the 
sloping  hillside  rove ; 

Where  the  whimpering  sea-gulls  swoop  and  soar,  and  the 
great  king-herons  go, 

The  fog  slunk  down  from    Labrador,   stealthy,  sure,  and 

slow! 

62 


The  Fog 

Then  a  stillness  fell  on  crag  and  cliff,  on  beach  and  breaker 

fell, 
As  the  sea-breeze  brought  on  its  final  whiff  the  note  of  a 

distant  bell, 
One  faint,  far  sound,  and  the  fog  unwound  its  mantle  across 

the  lea, 
Joined  hand  in  hand  with  a  wind  from  land,  and  the  twain 

went  out  to  sea. 
And  the  wind  that  rose  spoke  soft,  of  those  who  watch  on 

the  cliffs  at  dawn, 
And  the  fog's  white  lips,  of  sinking  ships  where  the  tortured 

tempests  spawn, 
As,  each  to  each,  they  told  once  more  such  things  as  fishers 

know, 
When  the  fog  slinks  down  from  Labrador,  stealthy,  sure, 

and  slow! 

Oh,  the  wan,  white  hours  go  limping  by,  when  that  pall 

comes  in  between 
The  great,  blue  bell  of  the  cloudless  sky  and  the  ocean's 

romping  green ! 
Nor  sane  young  day,  nor  swirl  of  spray,  as  the  cat's-paws 

lunge  and  lift ; — 

63 


The  Fog 

On  sad,  slow  waves,  like  the  mounds  of  graves,  the  fisher- 
men's dories  drift. 

For  the  fishing-craft  that  leapt  and  laughed  are  swallowed 
in  ghostly  gray : 

Only  God's  eyes  may  see  where  lies  the  lap  of  the  sheltered 
bay, 

So  their  dories  grope,  for  lost  their  lore,  witlessly  to  and 
fro, 

When  the  fog  slinks  down  from  Labrador,  stealthy,  sure, 
and  slow ! 

Oh,  men  of  the  fleet,  't  is  ye  who  learn,  of  the  white  fog's 

biting  breath, 
That  life  may  hang  on  the  way  ye  turn,  or  the  way  ye  turn 

be  death ! 
Though  they  on  the  lea  look  out  to  sea  for  the  woe  or  the 

weal  of  you, 
The  ominous  East,   like  a  hungry  beast,  is  waiting  your 

tidings,  too. 
A  night  and  a  day,  mayhap,  ye  stray ;  a  day  and  a  night, 

perchance, 
The  dory  is  led  toward  Marblehead,  or  pointed  away  for 

France ; 


The  Fog 

The  shore  may  save,  or  the  sea  may  score,  in  the  unknown 

final  throw, 
When  the  fog  slinks  down  from  Labrador,  stealthy,  sure, 

and  slow ! 

Ah,  God  of  the  Sea,  what  joy  there  lies  in  that  first  faint 
hint  of  sun  ! — 

When  the  pallid  curtains  sulking  rise,  and  the  reaches  wider 
run, 

When  a  wind  from  the  west  on  the  sullen  breast  of  the 
waters  shoulders  near, 

And  the  blessed  blue  of  the  sky  looks  through,  as  the  fog- 
wreaths  curl  and  clear. 

Ah,  God,  what  joy  when  the  gallant  buoy,  swung  high  on 
a  sudden  swell, 

Puts  fear  to  flight  like  a  dream  of  night  with  its  calm,  cour- 
ageous bell, 

And  the  dory  trips  the  sea's  wide  floor  with  the  verve  't  was 
wont  to  know, 

And  the  fog  slinks  back  to  Labrador,  stealthy,  sure,  and 
slow! 
MARBLEHEAD,  1901. 


Harlequin 

THE  world  lay  brown  and  barren  at  the  closing  of  the 
year, 
Where  the  rushes  shook  and  shuddered  on  the  borders  of 

the  mere, 
And  the  troubled  tide  ran  shoreward,  where  the  estuaries 

twined 
Through  the  wide  and  empty  marsh  toward  the  sullen  hills 

behind : 
And  the  smoke-engirdled  city  sulked  beneath  the  leaden 

skies, 
With  the  rain-tears  slowly  sliding  from  her  million  window 

eyes, 
And  the  fog-ghost  limped  and  lingered  past  the  buildings 

clad  in  grime, 

Till  the  Frost  King  gave  the  signal  for  the  Christmas  panto- 
mime! 

66 


Harlequin 


Then  we  heard  the  winds  of  winter  on  their  brazen  trumpets 
blow 

The  summons  for  the  ballet  of  the  nimble-footed  snow, 

And  the  flakes,  all  silver-spangled,  through  the  mazy  meas- 
ures wound, 

Till  each  finished  out  his  figure,  and  took  station  on  the 
ground. 

And  the  drifts,  in  shining  armor,  and  with  gem-encrusted 
shields, 

Spread  their  wide-deployed  battalions  on  the  drill-ground  of 
the  fields, 

Till  the  hillside  shone  and  shimmered  with  the  armies  of 
the  rime, 

As  the  Frost  King  gave  the  signal  for  the  Christmas  panto- 
mime ! 

He  spread  a  crystal  carpet  on  the  rush-encircled  pond, 
And  looped   about  with  ermine  all  the  hemlock-trees  be- 
yond: 
He     strung     his     gleaming     icicles     along    the    scowling 

eaves, 

And  decked  the  barren  branches  of  the  oak  with  snowy 
leaves. 


Harlequin 


And,  when  the  world  was  silver-girt  with  garland  and  fes- 
toon, 

He  drew  the  cloudy  curtain  that  had  lain  across  the  moon, 

And  his  wand  awoke  the  wonders  of  his  dazzling  distant 
clime, 

When  the  Frost  King  gave  the  signal  for  the  Christmas 
pantomime ! 

Then  around  the  benches,  crowded  with  the  audience  of 

earth, 
Ran  the  sound  of  hands  applauding,  and  of  little  people's 

mirth, 

And  the  air  was  full  of  savors  such  as  only  Christmas  knows, 
When  the  ruddy  cottage  windows  cast  their  roses  on  the 

snows : 
And  the  Fire-God  cracked  the  drift-wood  'twixt  his  fingers 

and  his  thumbs, 
And  the  merry  pop-corn  answered  like  the  roll  of  little 

drums, 
While  the   snow-clad  belfries  wakened,  and  the  midnight 

heard  their  chime, 

As  the  Frost  King  gave  the  signal  for  the  Christmas  panto- 
mime! 

68 


Harlequin 


With  blaze  of  starry  splendor,   and  with  brilliance  of  the 

moon, 

With  fir-trees  dressed  grotesquely,  like  the  slippered  Panta- 
loon, 

With  snowflakes  light  as  fairies,  and  with  slender  ivy  vines 
In  their  spangled  winter-dresses,  like  a  host  of  Columbines ; — 
With  sheen  of  silver  scenery,  and  sleigh-bells'  merry  din, 
The  whole  world  laughed  and  capered  'neath  the  wand  of 

Harlequin ! 

With  the  cap  and  bells  of  Folly  he  invested  Father  Time, 
When  the  Frost  King  gave  the  signal  for  the  Christmas 
pantomime ! 

SWAMPSCOTT,  I9O2. 


69 


The  Passing  of  Pan 

AUGHT ER,  velvet-lipped,  runs  ringing 
I  j     All  along  the  woodland  ways, 
While  a  strange,  bewitching  singing 

Fills  the  glad  Arcadian  days ; 
Ripple-rocked,  the  slender  naiads 

Rush-fringed  shores  expectant  scan 
For  attendant  hamadryads, 

Heralding  the  path  of  Pan. 

Through  the  swaying  bushes  sliding, 

Dark-eyed  nymphs  before  him  trip, 
And  the  god,  with  stately  striding, 

Follows,  laughter  on  his  lip ; 
While  the  wild  bird-hearts  that  love  him 

In  the  haunts  untrod  by  man, 
Riot  rapturously  above  him, 

Heralding  the  path  of  Pan. 
70 


The  Passing  of  Pan 

From  the  yellow  beds  of  mallows 

Gleams  the  glint  of  golden  hair, 
Nereids  from  the  shorewise  shallows 

Fling  a  greeting  on  the  air ; 
Slim  white  limbs,  divinely  fashioned, 

Of  the  fair  immortal  clan 
Sway  to  harmonies  impassioned, 

Heralding  the  path  of  Pan. 

Round  his  brow  a  wreath  he  tosses, 

Twined  with  Asphodel  and  rose, 
As  triumphant  o'er  the  mosses, 

Song-saluted  on  he  goes ; 
Frail  wood-maidens  who  adore  him, 

When  he  rests  his  temples  fan — 
When  he  rises,  run  before  him, 

Heralding  the  path  of  Pan ! 
NEW  YORK,  1896. 


Phoebus  Apollo 


HEAR  us,  Phoebus  Apollo,  who  are  shorn  of  contempt 
and  pride, 

Humbled  and  crushed  in  a  world  gone  wrong  since  the 
smoke  on  thine  altars  died ; 

Hear  us,  Lord  of  the  morning,  King  of  the  Eastern  Flame, 

Dawn  on  our  doubts  and  darkness  and  the  night  of  our  later 
shame ! 

There  are  strange  gods  come  among  us,  of  passion,  and 
scorn,  and  greed ; 

They  are  throned  in  our  stately  cities,  our  sons  at  their 
altars  bleed : 

The  smoke  of  their  thousand  battles  hath  blinded  thy  chil- 
dren's eyes, 

And  our  hearts  are  sick  for  a  ruler  that  answers  us  not  with 
lies, 

Sick  for  thy  light  unblemished,  great  fruit  of  Latona's  pain — 

Hear  us,  Phoebus  Apollo,  and  come  to  thine  own  again ! 

72 


Phoebus  Apollo 

Our  eyes,  of  earth  grown  weary,  through  the  backward  ages 

peer, 
Till,  wooed  by  our  eager  craving,  the  scent  of  thy  birth 

grows  clear 

And  across  the  calm  JEgean,  gray-green  in  the  early  morn, 
We  hear  the  cry  of  the  circling  swans  that  salute  the  god 

new-born — 
The  challenge  of  mighty  Python,  the  song  of  thy  shafts  that 

go 
Straight  to  the  heart  of  the  monster,  sped  from  the  loosened 

bow. 

Again  through  the  vale  of  Tempe  a  magical  music  rings 
The  songs  of  the  marching  muses,  the  ripple  of  fingered 

strings ! 

But  this  is  our  dreaming  only ;  we  wait  for  a  stronger  strain : 
Hear  us,  Phoebus  Apollo,  and  come  to  thine  own  again ! 

There  are  some  among  us,  Diviner,  who  know  not  thy  way 

or  will, 

Some  of  thy  rebel  children  who  bow  to  the  strange  gods  still ; 
Some  that  dream  of  oppression,  and  many  that  dream  of  gold, 
Whose  ears  are  deaf  to  the  music  that  gladdened  the  world 

of  old. 

73 


Phoebus  Apollo 

But  we,  the  few  and  the  faithful,  we  are  weary  of  wars 
unjust, 

There  is  left  no  god  of  our  thousand  gods  that  we  love,  be- 
lieve, or  trust ; 

In  our  courts  is  justice  scoffed  at,  in  our  senates  gold  has 
sway, 

And  the  deeds  of  our  priests  and  preachers  make  mock  of 
the  words  they  say ! 

Cardinals,  kings,  and  captains,  there  is  left  none  fit  to 
reign: 

Hear  us,  Phoebus  Apollo,  and  come  to  thine  own  again ! 

We  have  hearkened  to  creeds  unnumbered,  we  have  given 

them  trial  and  test, 
And  the  creed  of  thy  Delphic  temple  is  still  of  them  all  the 

best ; 
Thy  clean-limbed,  lithe  disciples,  slender,  and  strong,  and 

young, 
The  swing  of  their  long  processions,  the  lilt  of  the  songs 

they  sung, 

Thine  own  majestic  presence,  pursuing  the  nymph  of  dawn, 
In  thy  chariot  eastward  blazing,  by  the  swans  and  griffons 

drawn; 

74 


Phoebus  Apollo 

The  spell  of  thy  liquid  music,  once  heard  in  the  speeding 

year : — 
These  are  the  things,  Great  Archer,  that  we  yearn  to  see 

and  hear, 
For  beside  thy  creed  untarnished  all  others  are  stale  and 

vain! 
Hear  us,  Phoebus  Apollo,  and  come  to  thine  own  again ! 

Monarch  of  light  and  laughter,  honor,  and  trust,  and  truth, 
God  of  all  inspiration,  King  of  eternal  youth, 
Whose  words  are  fitted  to  music  as  jewels  are  set  in  gold, 
There  is  need  of  thy  splendid  worship  in  a  world  grown  grim 

and  old ! 
We  have  drunk  the  wine  of  the  ages,  we  are  come  to  the 

dregs  and  lees, 
And  the  shrines  are  all  unworthy  where  we  bend  reluctant 

knees ; 

The  brand  of  the  beast  is  on  us,  we  grovel,  and  grope,  and  err, 
Wake,  Great  god  of  the  Morning,  the  moment  has  come  to 

stir! 

The  stars  of  our  night  of  evil  on  a  wan  horizon  wane : — 
Hear  us,  Phoebus  Apollo,  and  come  to  thine  own  again ! 
ROME,  1900. 

75 


H 


"Whom  the  World  Calls  Idle 


E  is  brother-born  to  the  wind.     Its  song,  in  his  heart 

implanted, 
Stirs  and  wakes  when  the  morning  breaks  and  the  wide 

horizon  burns; 

He  is  brother-born  to  the  sea,  and  visions  of  isles  enchanted 
Slowly  rise  to  his  dreaming  eyes  from  the  furrow  his  labor 

turns. 
Child  of  fate,  be  it  soon  or  late  that  his  heart  he  learns  to 

know, 
Not  his  to  say  if  he  roam  or  stay  when  the  summons  bids 

him  go : 

Brother-born  to  the  wind  of  morn,  he  must  share  its  end- 
less quest 

Who  once  hath  heard  the  sovereign  word  of  the  gods  of 
Great  Unrest! 

The  stretch  of  the  open  road,  the  challenge  of  heights  un- 
mounted, 

The  distant  cry  of  the  beasts  that  lie  at  the  mouth  of 
some  latent  lair, 


"Whom  the  World  Calls  Idle 


The  sweep  of  the  pathless  plain  and  the  speeding  of  miles 

uncounted, 
When  the  rangers  ride,  with  a  star  for  guide,  in  the  face 

of  the  battling  air — 
These  are  his  whose  fortune  is,  like  the  tireless  tide's,  to 

roam, 
Brother-born  to  the  wind  of  morn,  with  the  whole  wide 

world  for  home : 
Child  of  the  soil,  he  must  turn  from  toil  to  the  dim  and 

dreamt-of  West, 

Who  once  hath  heard  the  sovereign  word  of  the  gods  of 
Great  Unrest ! 

Song  of  the  stately  pines  to  the  winds  of  northward  high- 
lands, 

Song  of  the  palms  across  the  calms  that  sleep  on  the  long 
lagoon, 

Glamour  of  breathless  dawns  on  the  shores  of  southward 

islands, 

And  the  mystical  light  that  tells  the  night  of  the  birth  of 
the  tardy  moon : 

These— at  the  gate  of   his  future  fate,  where  the  earthly 
questings  end 

77 


"Whom  the  World  Calls  Idle 


And  the  shadows  fall — he  hath  learned  to  call  by  the  sacred 

name  of  friend ; 
These,  in  the  strife  of  his  hapless  life,  he  hath  learned  to 

love  the  best 
Who  once  hath  heard  the  sovereign  word  of  the  gods  of 

Great  Unrest! 

Then  shall  it  be  for  us,  who  have  dreamed  no  dream  Elysian, 
To  cry  the  ban  of  our  fellow-man  who  brings  no  grist  to 

mill? 

*T  is  the  verve  of  his  viking  sires  that  awakes  the  plough- 
boy's  vision, 
And  the  rover  roil  in  the  child  of  toil  is  the  roil  of  the 

rover  still ! 
What  is  it  all,  this  thrill  and  thrall,  that  hath  mapped  his 

earthly  plan, 
Unless  some  gain  we  may  not  explain  in  the  onward  march 

of  man? 
Brother-born  to  the  wind  of  morn,  may  his  lot  be  not  the 

best 
Who  once  hath  heard  the  sovereign  word  of  the  gods  of 

Great  Unrest? 
PARIS,  1899. 

78 


Hesperia 

ACROSS  the  stretch  of  southward  seas 
The  zephyr-swept  Hesperides 
Lie  smiling,  ever  smiling ; 
And  there  the  laughter-loving  Pan 
Leads  on  his  joyous  woodland  clan 
Through  halcyon  haunts,  unknown  to  man, 

With  song  the  hours  beguiling. 
O  fair,  far  land,  thy  portals 
Swing  only  to  immortals ! 

Thy  scented  bowers,  thy  wondrous  flowers, 

Thy  pleasant  ways  of  ease, 
Thy  nights  dew-dipped  and  breathless, 
Thy  birds,  unwearied,  deathless — 
These  charms  untold  I  'd  fain  behold, 
Fair,  far  Hesperides! 

79 


Hesperia 

The  dusk  with  all  her  wealth  of  stars, 
The  dawn,  when  clouds  like  crimson  bars 

Turn  all  the  east  to  splendor, 
Bring  roseate  dreamings  unto  me 
Of  Nereids  flashing  from  the  sea, 
Who  turn  their  shining  eyes  to  thee, 

Thou  land  of  music  tender. 
But  ah,  't  is  useless  dreaming — 
Thy  woodland  pools  that,  gleaming 

Like  bits  of  sky,  unruffled  lie, 
Are  not  for  eyes  like  these ; 
Yet,  could  my  longing  vision 
Behold  thy  fields  Elysian, 

What  peace  divine  I  'd  claim  as  mine, 

Fair,  far  Hesperides! 
NEW  YORK,  1896. 


80 


BY  ways  I  k 
the  miles, 


Haven-Mother 


know  not  of  they  come,  wind-swept  along 


From  the  palm-encircled  beaches  of  the  jewelled  southern 

isles, 
Through  stress  of  gales  that  shred  their  sails  and  split  their 

straining  spars, 
Through  nights  of  calm  unbroken  and  the  wonder  of  the 

stars : 
And,  sliding  to  their  moorings  where  the  harbor  beacons 

shine, 
They   drop  their   sullen   anchors   for  a  moment,  and   are 

mine. 
Of   their   questing   grown   a-weary,    for   a   moment    they 

abide, 
Standing    mutely  and  majestic,   where    the  ripple  of  the 

tide 

With  its  lazy  lips  is  lapping  in  the  shadows  at  their  side. 

81 


Haven-Mother 

Of  the  wind  and  waves  beleaguered,  and  assailed  of  berg  and 

floe, 
To  the  ends  of  sea  undaunted,  these,  my  errant  children, 

go; 
Seeking  out  the   northern  waters,   it   is  theirs  a  way  to 

win 
Through  the  grinding  of  the  ice-pack,  threading  slowly  out 

and  in, 
Where  the  castles  of  the  Frost  King  in  their  pride  and  pallor 

rise, 
Thrusting  tower  and  buttress  upward  to  the  steely  Arctic 

skies  : 

And  a  deep  auroral  glory  from  the  white  horizon  grows, 
Mounting  swift  towards  the  zenith  and  reflected  on  the 

snows, 
Till  each  pinnacled  escarpment  turns  to  amethyst  and  rose. 

Or,  by  southward  pathways  faring,  where  the  stately  islands 

are, 
They,  by  beach  and  breaker  gliding,  run  to  safety  by  the 

bar; 

And,  their  sails  serenely  furling  where  the  motionless  lagoon 
In  its  lap  as  in  a  cradle  holds  the  duplicated  moon, 

82 


Haven-Mother 

Hear  the  sound  of  sailors  singing  and  the  plash  of  rhythmic 
oars 

Run  to  meet  the  midnight  murmurs  that  are  born  along  the 
shores. 

But  I  fear  not  these  enchantments;  where  the  trumpet- 
creepers  twine, 

Though  the  air  be  filled  with  music,  though  the  air  be  sweet 
as  wine, 

These  my  children  stay  not — may  not.  I  am  theirs,  and 
they  are  mine. 

Let  them  go  their  ways  unquestioned,  let  them  come,  un- 
questioned still, 

I  shall  wait  them,  I  shall  welcome,  come  they  when  or 
whence  they  will ; 

Am  I  not  the  Haven-Mother?  'T  is  a  mother's  part  to 
bide, 

To  be  ready,  to  be  tender,  when  the  turning  of  the 
tide 

Brings  the  rovers  homeward,  weary  of  their  strivings  with 
the  sea, 

To  the  sweet  surcease  that  waits  them  in  the  port  where 
they  would  be. 

83 


Haven-Mother 

Let  them  roam  to  north  or  southward — wheresoe'er  their 

ways  are  cast, 
To  my  bosom  backward  turning  when  their  journeying  is 

past, 
They  shall  gleam  within  the  offing,  and  be  mine  again  at 

last! 
NEW  YORK,  1897. 


84 


Gettysburg 

(JULY  3,  1863) 

*T^HOUGH  the  winds  be  strong  that  lash  along  the  steeds 

of  the  charging  sea, 
With  lunge  and  urge  of  assaulting  surge  yet  seeking  a 

further  goal, 
God  in  His  pleasure  hath  set  a  measure,  the  bound  of  their 

boast  to  be, 
Where,  pile  upon  pile,  and  mile  on  mile,  are  the  cliffs  of 

calm  control. 
But  the  Lord  of  Hosts  who  guardeth  the  coasts  yet  loveth  each 

sieging  swell, 
And  He  who  is  Brother  to  surge  and  smother  is  Brother  to 

cliff  as  well  : 
He  giveth  the  word  if  the  shore  be  stirred,  He  biddeth  tJte  sea 

subside, 
And  this  is  our  trust,  that  His  will  is  just,  however  He  turn 

the  tide  ! 

85 


Gettysburg 


As  night  went  gray  at  the  touch  of  day  and  the  slow  dawn 

mounted  higher, 
On  the  Federal  right  the  third  day's  fight  was  born  in  a 

sheet  of  fire : 
Gun  upon  gun  to  the  front  was  run,  and  each  in  its  turn 

spoke  forth 
From  fevered  mouth  to  the  waiting  South  the  word  of  the 

watching  North : 
And  the  wraith  of  Death  with  withering  breath  o'er  the 

wide  arena  played, 

As  across  the  large  swept  on  the  charge  of  the  old  Stone- 
wall brigade; 
But  the  first  great  wave  on  a  sudden  gave,  retreating  across 

the  slain — 
Gave  and  broke,  as  the  rifles  spoke  from  the  long  blue  line 

of  Kane ! 

Then  silence  sank  on  the  double  rank  deployed  on  the 

sullen  hill, 
And,  across  the  plain  of  the  early  slain,  the  hosts  of  the 

South  were  still, 
Waiting,  each,  till  further  speech  from  the  guns  should  dart 

and  din — 

86 


Gettysburg 


Sign  to  the  brave  that  the  final  wave  of  the  tide  was  rolling 
in. 

Adown  the  line  like  a  draught  of  wine  the  presence  of  Han- 
cock came, 

And  eyes  grew  bright  in  the  steadfast  light  of  his  own  that 
blazed  to  flame; 

For  the  Federals  knew,  where  his  banner  blew — and  they 
saw  their  leader  ride, 

That  a  righteous  God  on  that  sea  of  sod  had  decreed  a 
turn  of  tide ! 

So  came  one,  when  a  signal  gun  awoke  on  the  Southern 

side, 
And  Hunt's  brigade  with  a  cannonade  to  the  challenge  of 

Lee  replied, 
Like  arrows  sent  from  a  bow  well  bent  to  the  heart  of  a 

distant  targe, 
Virginia's  hope  rode  down  the  slope,  with  Pickett  leading 

the  charge ! 
Steady   and   slow,    as   soldiers   go   in   some   serried  dress 

parade, 
With  flags  a-dance  in  their  cool  advance  came  the  gallant 

gray  brigade, 

87 


Gettysburg 


And  steady  and  slow,  as  if  no  foe  on  the  frowning  heights 

abode, 
To  the  cannon's  breath,  to  the  scythe  of  Death,  Pickett, 

their  leader,  rode. 

God!  what   a  mile  he  led  them!     From  the  slope  they 

sought  to  scale, 

Sullen  and  hot,  the  swingeing  shot  was  hurling  its  awful  hail: 
Where   a   long   ravine  ploughed  through   the   green  they 

halted,  anew  to  form, 
And  then,  with  a  cheer,  to  the  ridge's  sheer  they  swept 

like  a  summer  storm. 
Hand  to  hand  at  the  guns   they  manned,    the   Federals 

fought  and  fell, 
Where  Armistead  his  regiment  led  up  the  cannister-har- 

rowed  swell, 
He  touched  a  gun — for  a  breath  he  won  the  crest  of  the 

Union's  pride — 
Then  over  the  hill  Jehovah's  will  decreed  the  turn  of  the  tide ! 

Taken  in  flank  each  gallant  rank  of  Pickett 's  battalions  gave, 
Trampled  and  tossed,  since  hope  was  lost,  there  was  left  but 
life  to  save ; 

88 


Gettysburg 

Beaten   back   on  the   travelled   track,    they   faltered,   and 

broke,  and  fled, 
And,  swinging  his  scythe,  Death  claimed  his  tithe  in  the 

pale  and  patient  dead ! 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  had  raised  the  sword  that  man 

may  not  gainsay, 
'Twixt  the  cause  of  the  Free  and  the  cause  of  Lee  the  issue 

no  longer  lay ; 
For  the  word  of  the  Lord  had  gone  abroad  that  the  strife  of 

the  right  had  won, 
And  Freedom's  foe  at  the  call  bowed  low  and  answered 

"Thy  will  be  done!" 

Pickett,  ah,  Pickett,  the  staunchest  heart  in  the  Southern 

host  that  day, 
Hail  to  the  brave  in  the  last  great  wave  of  the  long  and 

fearful  fray, 
That  broke  in  foam  on  the  trampled  loam  of  that  tempest 

trampled  mount — 
In  the  glory  born  of  a  hope  forlorn  they  passed  to  their  last 

account ! 
Meade,  ah,  Meade,  there  are  hearts  that  bleed  for  your  host 

that  fought  and  fell, 

89 


Gettysburg 


When  the  final  charge  broke  on  the  marge  of  a  hillside 
turned  to  Hell ! 

Yet  this  the  speech  on  the  crag-girt  beach  that  the  sea  pro- 
claims for  aye, 

And  this  the  word  that  the  cliffs  unstirred  through  the  ages 
still  reply : 

Though  the  winds  be  strong  that  lash  along  the  steeds  of  the 

charging  sea, 
With  lunge  and  urge  of  assaulting  surge  yet  seeking  a 

further  goal, 
God  in  His  pleasure  hath  set  a  measure,  the  bound  of  their 

boast  to  be, 
Where,  pile  upon  pile,  and  mile  on  mile,  are  the  cliffs  of 

calm  control. 
But  the  Lord  of  Hosts  who  guardeth  the  coasts  yet  loveth  each 

sieging  swell, 
And  He  wfto  is  Brother  to  surge  and  smother  is  Brother  to 

cliff  as  well  : 
He  giveth  the  word  if  the  shore  be  stirred,  He  biddeth  the  sea 

subside, 
And  this  is  our  trust,  that  His  will  is  just,  however  He  turn 

the  tide  ! 
NEW  YORK,  1898. 

90 


Atlantis 

THE  light  of  suns  unseen,  through  depths  of  sea  de- 
scending, 

Within  her  street  awakes  the  ghost  of  noon 
To  bide  its  little  hour  and  die  unheeded,  blending 

Into  her  night  that  knows  nor  stars  nor  moon. 
The  hurrying  feet  of  storms  that  trample  o'er  the  surges 

Arouse  no  echo  in  these  silent  deeps ; 

No  thunder  thrills  her  peace,  no  sword  of  lightning  scourges 
The  dim,  dead  calm  where  lost  Atlantis  sleeps. 

Long  leagues  above  her  courts  the  stately  days  advancing 

Kindle  new  dawns  and  see  new  sunsets  dim ; 
And,    white    and    weary-eyed,    the    old    stars,    backward 
glancing, 

Reluctant  pause  upon  the  ocean's  rim. 
But  she,  of  dawns  and  dusks  forgotten  and  forgetful, 

Broods  in  her  depths  with  slumber-weighted  eyes ; 
For  all  her  splendid  past  unanxious,  unregretful, 

She  waits  the  call  that  bids  her  wake  and  rise. 

91 


Atlantis 


No  mortal  voice  she  hears.     The  strong  young  ships,  full- 
freighted, 

With  hopes  of  men,  with  women's  sighs  and  tears, 
Above  her  blue-black  walls  and  portals  golden-gated 

Sweep  on  unnoted  through  the  speeding  years — 
Until  at  last  they  come,  as  still  in  silence  resting 

She  keeps  her  vigil  underneath  the  waves, 
By  tempests  tossed  and  torn,  and  weary  of  their  questing, 

Slow  sliding  downward  past  her  to  their  graves. 

So  side  by  side  they  lie  in  ever  gaining  number, 

The  sunken  ships,  by  fate  or  fortune  led 
To  this,  their  final  port,  resistless  sent  to  slumber 

Until  the  sea  shall  render  up  her  dead — 
Shall  render  up  her  dead  to  all  their  olden  glories, 

Shall  render  up  what  now  so  well  she  keeps, 
The  buried  lives  and  loves,  the  strange,  unfinished  stories 

Of  these  dim  depths  where  lost  Atlantis  sleeps ! 
PARIS,  1899. 


The  Easter  Lily 


A  LITTLE  child,  as  winter  turned  to  spring, 
Tended  a  lily-plant  with  patient  care, 
Thinking,  when  she  should  see  it  blossoming, 

To  set  it  on  the  chancel-step ;  that  there, 
When  Easter  dawned  on  Lent,  the  spotless  thing 
Might  on  the  feast-day  be  her  offering, 

Lifting  its  own  white  face  to  One  more  fair. 

But,  as  the  plant  grew  upward  day  by  day, 
Raising  itself  from  earth  towards  the  sky, 

So  seemed  the  child  from  earth  to  draw  away, 
The  while  she  feared  to  see  the  lily  die ; 

Unthinking  that,  ere  broke  the  Easter  ray, 

She  might  her  own  white  soul  before  Him  lay 
For  Whom  she  sought  the  flower  to  sanctify. 

93 


The  Easter  Lily 

Time  passed.     The  lily  bloomed  not ;  and  the  night 
Before  the  feast  had  come.     And  so  the  child 

Sent  to  the  church  the  cherished  plant,  despite 
'T  was  but  an  unblown  bud;  and — reconciled 

That  on  the  altar-step,  midst  flowers  white, 

Her  poor  green  stalk  watched  out  the  silent  flight 
Of  hours  until  the  morn — contented  smiled. 


Fair  broke  the  dawn  upon  the  altar's  hem 
Of  lilies,  breathing  Easter  greeting  sweet ; 

But,  with  the  night  that  so  perfected  them, 
The  child's  own  spirit  fled,  the  Light  to  meet 

Beyond  the  heaven's  roseate  diadem ; 

And,  with  the  morning,  bloomed  upon  the  stem 

The  fair,  white  soul  her  own  had  longed  to  greet ! 
NEW  YORK,  1893. 


94 


"The  Winds  and  the  Sea  Obey  Him" 

WHO  once  hath  heard  the  sea  above  her  graves 
Sing  to  the  stars  her  requiem,  and  on  whom 
Her  spell  is  laid  of  shoreward-sliding  waves, 

Alternate  gleam  and  gloom, 
In  reverent  mood  and  silent,  standing  where 
Her  hundred  throats  their  diapason  raise, 
Hath  found  the  very  perfectness  of  prayer 

And  plenitude  of  praise. 
Thenceforward  is  his  hope  a  thing  apart 

From  man's  perplexing  dogmas,  good  or  ill; 
Deep  in  the  sacred  silence  of  his  heart 

His  faith  abideth,  still:— 
A  faith  that  fails  not,  steadfast,  humble,  kind, 

Amid  a  vexing  multitude  of  creeds 
That  bend  and  break  with  every  passing  wind, 
Like  tempest-trampled  reeds. 

95 


"  The  Winds  and  the  Sea  Obey  Him " 

The  tide  of  man's  belief  may  ebb  or  flow; 

Its  swift  mutations,  many  though  they  be, 
He  heedeth  not  who  once  hath  come  to  know 

The  anthem  of  the  sea. 
From  sages  and  their  blindly  fashioned  lore 
He  turns,  to  watch  with  reverential  eyes 
The  seas  men  fear  serve  ceaselessly  before 

The  God  whom  men  despise! 
Through  length  of  days  and  year  succeeding  year 

Earth's  strongest  power  serves  Heaven's  still  stronger  one, 
And  all  the  winds,  in  holy-hearted  fear, 

To  do  His  bidding  run. 
Ah,  likewise  serving,  restless  hearts,  be  still, 

And  learn,  like  little  children,  of  the  way — 
Secure  in  Him,  Whose  strong  enduring  will 
The  winds  and  sea  obey ! 

SWAMPSCOTT,  1897. 


96 


Derelict 


IN  younger  days,  of  idleness  grown  sick, 
On  this  low  bank  I  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  fingers  of  the  leaning  willows  prick 

Long  dimples  in  the  slow,  reluctant  stream. 
Watching  the  pilgrim  leaves  forsake  the  stem, 

Impatient  of  the  dull  familiar  cove, 
And  idle  down  the  tide,  I  longed  like  them, 

Untrammelled,  homeless,  free  of  heart,  to  rove. 

I  mind  me  that  of  these  I  noted  one 

That  at  the  bend  a  wayward  eddy  turned 
And  drifted  back,  its  journey  just  begun, 

The  secret  of  the  wider  stream  unlearned. 
It  seemed  a  poor  reward  for  one  so  bold, 

Checked  at  the  start,  and  beaten  back,  to  find 
So  stale  a  death.     I  did  not  know,  of  old, 

What  seemed  so  hard  could  be  in  truth  so  kind ! 

97 


Derelict 


I  little  thought  that  on  a  larger  stream 

I,  too,  one  day  should  drift  away  at  will 
Toward  the  distant  reaches  of  my  dream 

From  the  safe  shelter  where  I  lived  so  still. 
I  little  thought  that  I  should  one  day  grow 

Weary  of  endless  pictures  filing  past, 
Of  idle  life  and  idler  love,  and  so 

Come  gladly  to  some  little  cove  at  last. 

Kind  eddy  that  has  caught  me  from  the  tide, 

Of  drifting  weary,  tempest-torn  and  tost, 
To  find,  from  the  swift  current  turned  aside, 

The  simpler  things  I  thought  that  I  had  lost ! 
What  have  they  brought  me,  all  the  wasted  years, 

The  river's  turns  that  opened  with  a  smile 
And  ended  in  the  bitterness  of  tears? 

Kind  God!     How  little  were  they  worth  the  while! 

Yet,  here  and  there,  around  the  sudden  bends, 
The  opening  reaches  held  some  sweet  surprise : — 

My  arm  has  linked  and  lingered  in  a  friend's, 
My  eyes  have  seen  love  swim  in  lovely  eyes ! 


Derelict 


I  have  kissed  pleasure — walked  alone  with  pain ; 

And,  if  to  life  I  was  apprentice  made, 
My  years  of  toil  have  brought  the  toiler's  gain — 

By  life  equipped,  of  life  I  know  the  trade ! 

I  have  made  foes,  and  so  can  keep  a  friend ; 

Learned  of  a  friend  how  gently  foes  may  score ; 
Played  fast  and  loose  with  love,  and  in  the  end 

Lost  it,  and,  losing,  learned  to  love  the  more ! 
Seeking  for  gifts,  I  found  't  is  joy  to  give, 

Searching  for  truth,  was  taught  to  know  a  lie ; 
Pursuing  death,  I  learned  't  is  good  to  live, 

In  quest  of  life,  I  learned  it  safe  to  die ! 

What  were  it  better  that  the  past  should  be 

Than  like  that  leaf,  turned  helplessly  aside, 
That  drifted  back  beneath  its  mother-tree, 

And  at  its  root  to  purer  purpose  died? 
Another  year  yet  other  leaves  there  sprung, 

Fed  by  the  mould  of  which  it  formed  a  part, 
That  subtly  heard,  mayhap,  that  voiceless  tongue 

And  laid  its  lesson  silently  to  heart. 

99 


Derelict 


From  soil  of  pride  the  plant  of  meekness  grows, 

From  labor's  mine  comes  gold  of  sweet  surcease ; 
By  sorrow's  showers  is  fed  contentment's  rose, 

And  passion's  vultures  build  the  nest  of  peace: 
So  from  past  weakness  future  strength  I  gain, 

As  poise  of  knowledge  to  my  doubt  succeeds, 
And  faith's  fresh  flower,  that  long  I  sought  in  vain, 

Blooms  on  the  rubbish  of  my  mouldered  creeds. 

Now  at  the  end  I  see  that  it  was  well 

To  drain  the  cup  down  to  the  bitter  lees ; 
To  foretaste  heaven — thread  the  paths  of  hell, 

Else  empty  words  and  meaningless  were  these : 
Else  might  I  stand,  as  once  I  stood  outside 

My  fast-locked  heart,  its  best  and  worst  unknown, 
Till  life's  firm  hand  flung  the  barred  portals  wide 

And  led  me  in,  a  stranger,  to  my  own ! 
POISSY-SUR-SEINE,  1900. 


100 


The  Debutante 

TO-DAY  dawned  not  upon  the  earth  as  other  days  have 
done: 

A  throng  of  little  virgin  clouds  stood  waiting  for  the  sun, 
Till  the  herald-winds  aligned  them,  and  they  blushed,  and 

stood  aside, 
As  the  marshals  of  the  morning  flung  the  eastern  portals 

wide. 

So  Nature  lit  her  playhouse  for  the  play  that  May  begins, 
And  the  twigs  of  honeysuckle  sawed  like  little  violins : 
In  the  dawn  there  dwelt  a  whisper  of  a  presence  that  was 

new, 
For  the  slender  Spring  was  at  the  wing,  and  waiting  for  her 

cue! 

As  yet  I  could  not  see  her,  and  the  stage  was  wide  and  bare ; 
As  yet  the  Winter's  chorus  echoed  faintly  on  the  air 
With  a  dying  wail  of  tempest,  and  of  dry  and  tortured  trees, 
But  a  promise  of  new  music  lent  enchantment  to  the  breeze. 

101 


V- 


The  Debutante 

In  the  scene's   secluded  corners  lay  the  snow-drifts,  still 

secure ; 

But  the  murmur  of  their  melting  sang  another  overture 
Than  the  brooks  of  brown  November,  and  I  listened,  and  I 

knew 
That  blue-eyed  Spring  was  at  the  wing,  and  waiting  for  her 

cue! 

HMPk 

The    world    was  all   attention,   and  the  hemlocks  stood, 

a-row, 
Ushers,    never  changing    costume  through    the   Seasons' 

wonder-show, 
While  the  day,  below  the  hillside,  tried  her  colors,  one  by 

one, 

On  the  clouds  experimenting,  till  the  coming  of  the  sun. 
In  the  vines  about  my  window,  where  the  sparrows  all  con- 
vene, 
They  were  practising  the  chorus  that  should  usher  in  the 

Queen, 
And  the  sod-imprisoned  flowers  craved  the  word  to  shoulder 

through : 
Green-girdled  Spring  was  at  the  wing,  and  waiting  for  her 

cue! 

JO2 


The  Debutante 

She  shall  enter  to  the  clarion  of  the  crystal-ringing  brooks, 

She  shall  tread  on  frail  arbutus  in  the  moist  and  mossy 
nooks ; 

She  shall  touch  the  bleak  drop-curtain  of  the  Winter  with 
her  wand 

Till  it  lifts,  and  shows  the  wonder  of  the  apple  blooms  be- 
yond! 

Yet  with  all  her  golden  sunlight,  and  her  twilights  of  per- 
fume, 

Yet  with  all  the  mystic  splendor  of  her  nights  of  starlit 
gloom, 

She  shall  bring  no  sweeter  moment  than  this  one  in  which  I 
knew 

That  laughing  Spring  was  at  the  wing,  and  waiting  for  her 
cue! 

SWAMPSCOTT,  IQO2. 


103 


Shells 

WHERE  the  long  waves  put  cool,  caressing  hands 
Upon  the  fevered  temples  of  the  shore, 

And  with  their  eager  lips  are  telling  o'er 
Their  strange,  unspoken  secrets  to  the  sands, 
Along  the  shining  rim  of  cape  and  cove 

The  shells  in  fair,  unplanned  mosaic  lie ; 

And  there  the  children,  keen  of  heart  and  eye, 
Gather  their  harvest  in  of  treasure-trove. 
Yet  this  is  one  of  ocean's  mysteries — 

That,  while  the  humbler  shells  the  breakers  brave, 

The  fairest  are  most  fragile,  and  the  wave, 
Ruthless,  has  crushed  and  mutilated  these ! 

Ah,  sea  of  life,  we,  too,  like  children,  stand 
Through  youth  and  age,  expectant,  at  thy  rim, 
To  pray  for  golden  argosies  from  Him 

Who  holds  thee  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand. 

104 


Shells 


Capricious  tides  delude  us,  veer  and  turn, 
And  flash  our  dreams  to  view,  again  to  hide ; 
A  moment  on  the  breaker's  crest  they  ride, 

The  while  we  watch,  their  destiny  to  learn. 

Poor,  fragile  dreams !     Our  humbler  hopes  befall ; 
But  crushed  and  shattered,  tempest-tossed  and  torn, 
These  come  to  shore,  the  dreams  of  youthful  morn — 

Most  fair,  most  frail,  and  best  beloved  of  all ! 
NEW  YORK,  1897. 


105 


At  Twilight 


WAS  it  so  long?  It  seems  so  brief  a  while 
Since  this  still  hour  between  the  day  and  dark 
Was  lightened  by  a  little  fellow's  smile; 

Since  we  were  wont  to  mark 
The  sunset's  crimson  dim  to  gold,  to  gray, 

Content  to  know  that,  though  he  loved  to  roam 
Care-free  among  the  comrades  of  his  play, 
Twilight  would  lead  him  home. 

A  year  ago !     The  well-remembered  hail 

Of  happy-hearted  children  on  the  green 
We  hear  to-night,  and  see  the  sunset  pale, 

The  distant  hills  between : 
But  when  the  busy  feet  shall  homeward  turn, 

When  little  wearied  heads  shall  seek  for  rest, 
Where  shall  you  find  the  weight  for  which  you  yearn, 

Ah,  tender  mother-breast  ? 

106 


At  Twilight 

Dear  lips,  that  in  the  twilight  hushed  and  dim 

Lulled  him  with  murmured  fantasies  of  song; 
Dear  slender  arms,  that  safely  sheltered  him, 

The  empty  years  are  long! 
The  night's  caressing  wind  moves  babbling  on, 

And  all  the  whispered  gossip  of  the  firs 
Is  busy  with  his  name  who  now  is  gone — 

My  little  lad  and  hers ! 

But  if  we  so,  with  eager  eyes  and  glad, 

Looked  forward  to  his  coming  in  the  gloom ; 
If  so  our  hearts  leaped  out  to  meet  the  lad 

Whose  smile  lit  all  the  room, — 
Shall  there  not  be  a  Presence  waiting  thus 

To  still  the  bitter  craving  of  the  quest? 
Shall  there  not  be  a  welcome,  too,  for  us 

When  we  go  home  to  rest? 

Yes,  God  be  thanked  for  this :  the  ashen-gowned 
Sweet  presence  of  the  twilight,  and,  afar, 

The  strong,  enduring  hills,  in  beauty  crowned 
With  one  white,  steadfast  star ! 
107 


At  Twilight 

A  year  ago?     What,  love,  to  us  are  years? 

The  selfsame  twilight,  cool,  and  calm,  and  dim, 
That  led  him  home  to  us,  despite  our  fears, 

Shall  lead  us  home  to  him ! 
NEW  YORK,  1898. 


108 


Paris 

I  KNEW  when  first  I  looked  into  her  eyes, 
And  she  in  mine,  that  what  has  been  must  be, 
And  so  let  others  say  she  told  them  lies : 

She  told  no  lie  to  me ! 
She  spoke  me  fair,  of  lees  as  well  as  wine, 

Then,  with  that  subtlest  charm  of  all  her  charms, 
Half-dropped  her  languid  lids,  and  at  the  sign 
I  ran  into  her  arms ! 

Now  it  is  she  who  flings  my  window  wide 

At  dawn,  and  lets  the  perfumed  morning  in, 
And  she  who  walks  so  softly  at  my  side, 

Through  noonday's  dust  and  din. 
But,  most  of  all,  't  is  she,  where  blue  night  falls, 

Whose  firm,  imperious  fingers  tap  the  pane, 
And  she  whose  velvet  voice  it  is  that  calls, 
Nor  calls  her  own  in  vain ! 
109 


Paris 

It  is  as  if  the  siren  understood 

How  that  she  is  so  strong  at  this  still  hour, 
That  I  could  not  repulse  her  if  I  would, 

Nor  would,  had  I  the  power : 
As  if  she  knew  that,  should  I  try  to  check 

The  strength  of  that  enrapt,  responsive  thrill, 
Let  her  but  slide  her  arm  about  my  neck, 
And  I  obey  her  will ! 

So,  when  she  speaks,  I  answer ;  when  she  woos, 

Her  voice,  like  wine,  the  slow  pulse  goads  and  spurs : 
I  go  to  meet  her  through  the  dropping  dews, 

And  lean  my  lips  to  hers. 
All  the  long  hours  run  laughing  into  one — 

The  strange,  sweet  moment  when  the  evening  falls — 
And,  like  a  mother  summoning  her  son, 

Resistless  Paris  calls! 
PARIS,  1901. 


110 


Ebb-Tide 

A  SODDEN  reach  of  wide  and  wind-swept  lea, 
A  sky  of  shattered  steel  that  palls  the  sight, 
And  one  long  shaft  of  sun  that  seems  to  write 
Vast  letters  slowly  on  a  slate  of  sea ; 

The  dreary  wail  of  gulls  that  skim  the  crest 

Of  sullen  breakers  sliding  in  to  land, 
A  world  grown  empty,  full  of  vague  unrest, 
And  shadow-shapes  that  stride  across  the  sand ! 

The  gray  beach  widens.     Foot  by  foot  appear 

Strange  forms  of  wreckage  creeping  from  the  waves, 
Like  ghosts  that  steal  in  silence  from  their  graves 
To  watch  beside  the  death-bed  of  the  year ; 

Poor  shattered  shapes  of  ships  that  once  stood  out 

Full-freighted  to  the  far  horizon's  sweep 
To  music  of  the  cheery  sailor-shout 

Of  men  who  sought  the  wonders  of  the  deep ! 
Ill 


Ebb-Tide 


Poor  shattered  ships !     Their  gallant  cruising  o'er, 
Their  cargoes  coral-crusted,  leagues  below, 
They  rise,  unnamed,  unnumbered,  from  the  slow 
Recession  of  the  ebb  along  the  shore. 

The  fickle  tide,  that  bore  them  bravely  then, 

Betrays  their  shame  and  nakedness  to  be 
Mute  witness  to  the  littleness  of  men 
Who  battle  with  the  sovereignty  of  sea. 

For  me,  as  well,  alone  upon  the  dune, 

There  sinks  a  tide  that  strips  the  beaches  bare, 
And  leaves  but  grim,  unsightly  wreckage  where 
The  brooding  skies  make  mockery  of  noon. 

Ah,  dear,  that  hopes,  like  tides,  should  ebb  away, 

Unmasking  on  the  naked  shore  of  love 
Flotsam  and  jetsam  of  a  happier  day, 

Dreams  wrecked  and  all  the  emptiness  thereof ! 
NEW  YORK,  1899. 


112 


June 

LIGHTSOME,  laughter-loving  June, 
Days  that  swoon 
In  beds  of  flowers ; 
Twilights  dipped  in  rose  perfume, 

Nights  of  gloom 
Washed  clear  by  showers. 
Suns  that  softly  sink  to  rest 

In  the  west, 
All  purple  barred ; 
And  a  faint  night-wind  that  sighs 

Under  skies 
Still,  silver-starred. 
Languorous  breaths  of  meadow  land 

Overspanned 
By  clouds  like  snow ; 
And  a  shouting  from  the  brooks, 

Where  in  nooks 
Late  violets  grow. 
June,  ah,  June,  to  lie  and  dream 
By  the  stream, 


June 

And  in  the  maze 
Of  thy  spells  never  to  heed — 

How  they  speed, 
Thy  witching  days ; 
Watching  where  the  shadows  pass, 

And  the  grass 
All  rustling  bends, 
While  the  bees  fly  east  and  west, 

On  a  quest 
That  never  ends. 
Thus  to  shun  the  whirl  of  life, 

Freed  from  strife 
And  freed  from  care — 
Hear,  as  when  a  lad  I  heard 

How  the  bird 
Sings,  high  in  air. 
June,  to  hear  beneath  the  skies 

Lullabies 

That  night  airs  blow ; 
Ah,  to  find  upon  thy  breast 

That  pure  rest 
I  used  to  know! 
NEW  YORK,  1895. 

114 


The  Children 

(AVENUE  DU  BOIS,  APRIL,  1901) 

A  MOMENT  since,  I  paced  almost  alone 
This  wonderful  wide  way,  of  all  her  streets 
The  one  wherein  the  pulse  of  Paris  beats 
Most  gaily.     Like  some  sweep  of  beachway,  blown 
Empty  by  west-born  winds,  the  tapering  line 
Of  path  and  drive  swelled  up  the  rising  ground 
Toward  the  Arch,  deserted,  and  I  found 
The  most  majestic  mile  in  Europe  mine ! 

Was  it  some  word  I  did  not  comprehend, 
Some  sign  too  subtle  for  my  grosser  sense, 
That  in  an  instant  brought,  I  know  not  whence, 

This  throng  that  fills  the  path  from  end  to  end? 

Or  was  it  that  the  wizard  April  sun 

Bent  and  tapped  lightly  at  the  myriad  doors 


The  Children 

Wherefrom  this  tide  of  laughter  daily  pours? 
I  know  but  this : — a  miracle  was  done ! 

The  children !     All  the  world  's  a  garden  grown, 
Thrilled  with  a  rush  of  inter-rippling  words 
Than  all  the  liquid  babble  of  the  birds 

Supremely  sweeter;  and  my  steps  are  strown 

With  faces  made  of  roses,  and  my  hand 

Kept  busy  with  the  venturesome  who  stray 
Out  of  their  course,  and  pause  upon  the  way 

To  bend  above  some  treasure  in  the  sand. 

An  instant  gone,  it  was  a  little  face 
Framed  in  white  satin,  and  two  violets 
That  looked  me  through,  and  fathomed  the  regrets 

Of  my  whole  lifetime  in  a  second's  space ! 

And  now  see  where  he  stands,  that  elder  one, 

Poised  straight  and  slender,  with  the  languid  South 
Snared  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  proud  young  mouth : — 

Ah,  God,  ah,  God,  why  hast  Thou  hid  the  sun? 

I  thought  them  long  since  dead,  these  dreams,  and  yet 
Behold,  they  stand  before  me  in  the  way, 

116 


The  Children 

Amid  the  throng  of  little  ones  at  play, 
Gowned  in  their  ashen  robes  of  vain  regret ! 
Ah,  first  love  of  my  young,  believing  heart, 

Haven  of  my  hopes,  white  light  across  my  fears, 
How  strange  it  is  to  think  the  empty  years 
Might  of  this  heaven  have  granted  us  a  part ! 

How  slow  upon  the  air  the  music  dies ! 

How  blind  am  I,  how  loath  to  understand ! 

The  wraiths  of  dreams  denied  brush  by  me,  and 
I  find  my  unborn  bairns  in  strangers'  eyes ! 
Exiled,  I  watch  them,  romping  as  they  run, 

Heartsick  for  this  that  now  can  never  be : — 

One  that  should  at  my  coming  run  to  me ! 
Ah,  God,  ah,  God,  why  hast  Thou  hid  the  sun? 


117 


Narcissus 

SINCE  the  great,  glad  greeting  of  dawn  from  the  eastern 
hills 

Triumphant  ran  with  a  shout  to  the  woods  below, 
With  the  song  in  his  ears  of  the  clearly  clamoring  rills 

He  has  lain,  like  a  man  of  snow, 
Slender  and  straight  as  the  joyous  immortals  are  made, 

Born  of  woman,  but  born  with  the  grace  of  a  god. 
Unheeded  airs,  caressingly  cool,  have  played 

With  his  hair,  and  the  nymphs  have  trod 
Close  to  his  side,  and  have  kissed  him,  waiting  to  flee — 
But  Narcissus,  what  recketh  he? 

In  the  pool  where  the  lithe  fish  flashes  and  slips 

From  his  covert  to  snap  at  the  careless,  fluttering  flies, 

Narcissus  has  seen  the  curve  of  his  drooping  lips, 

And,  like  mirrored  miniature  heavens,  his  shining  eyes. 

118 


Narcissus 


And  a  flush  like  a  dew-dipped  rose  has  dyed  the  pool, 
He  has  laid  his  cheek  to  the  ripples  cool ; 

Brow  touches  brow,  lips  lips,  and  his  eyes  of  violet  roam 

Down  through  the  crystal  depths.     In  the  darkening  dome 
The  stars  shine  forth  from  their  faint,  far  ways, 
Trimming  their  lamps ;  and,  from  the  purple  haze, 

The  moon,  cloud-veiled,  her  circle  just  complete, 
Wan  as  a  travail-spent  mother,  plants  her  feet 

On  the  carpeted  hills,  and  fearful  of  change 
Seeks  her  reflected  face  in  the  sea's  southward  range — 
But  Narcissus,  what  recketh  he? 

Narcissus,  Narcissus,  where  is  thy  boyish  bloom, 
Thy  long,  slim  form  that  lay  beside  the  pool, 
And  the  lips  cold  smiling  to  their  smiling  image  cool? 
Narcissus ! 

Only  a  strange,  indefinite  perfume, 
And  a  dim  white  spot  in  the  night  when  soft  airs  blow ; 
A  flower,  bending,  bending  low 

Its  petals  and  its  yellow  heart  to  where  the  waters  flow ; 
Its  scent  the  winds  have  borne 
Through  the  pearl-gray  east  to  the  arms  of  morn, 

119 


Narcissus 


To  faint  and  to  die  in  the  wakening  light — 

But  of  time's  swift  flight,  the  dawn,  and  the  noon,  and  the 

night, 
The  sun's  gold  glory,  the  moon's  white  mystery, 

Narcissus,  what  recketh  he? 
NEW  YORK,  1896. 


120 


Pompeii 

THE  giant  slept,  and  pigmies  at  his  feet, 
Like  children  moulding  monuments  of  snow, 
Piled  stone  on  stone,  mapped  market-place  and  street, 

And  saw  their  temples  column-girdled  grow: 
And,  slowly  as  the  gradual  glaciers  grope 
Their  way  resistless,  so  Pompeii  crept, 
Year  by  long  year,  across  the  shelving  slope 
Toward  the  sea : — and  still  the  giant  slept. 

Belted  with  gardens,  where  the  shivered  glass 

Of  falling  fountains  broke  the  pools'  repose, 
As  they  had  been  asleep  upon  the  grass, 

A  myriad  villas  stretched  themselves  and  rose : 
And  down  her  streets,  grown  long  and  longer  still, 

Grooving  the  new-laid  stones,  the  chariots  swept, 
And  of  a  sudden  burst  upon  the  hill 

Vast  amphitheatres.     Still  the  giant  slept. 

121 


Pompeii 


With  liquid  comment  of  the  wooing  doves, 

With  wanton  flowers,  sun-conjured  from  the  loam, 
Grew  the  white  city  of  illicit  loves, 

Hostess  of  all  the  infamy  of  Rome ! 
A  marble  harlot,  scornful,  pale,  and  proud, 

Her  Circean  court  on  ruin's  brink  she  kept, 
Lulled  by  the  adoration  of  the  crowd 

To  lethal  stupor.     Still  the  giant  slept. 

Incense-encircled,  pacing  day  by  day 

Through  temple-courts  reechoant  with  song, 
Sin-stunned  and  impercipient,  on  her  way 

She  dragged  her  languid  loveliness  along. 
With  lips  whereon  a  dear  damnation  hung, 

With  dark,  dream-clouded  eyes  that  never  wept, 
Flawlessly  fair,  the  faulty  fair  among, 

She  kissed  and  cursed : — and  still  the  giant  slept. 

Here,  for  a  mute  reminder  of  her  shame, 
Her  ruins  gape  out  baldly  from  their  tomb ; 

A  city  naked,  shorn  of  all  but  name, 

Blinking  and  blind  from  all  her  years  of  gloom : 

122 


Pompeii 

A  beldam  who  was  beauty,  crying  alms 

With  leprous  lips  that  mouthe  their  prayers  in  vain ; 
Her  deaf  destroyer  to  her  outstretched  palms 
Respondeth  not.     The  giant  sleeps  again ! 
POMPEII,  1900. 


123 


On  the  Prow 

STRANGE,  silent  East !  Across  the  solemn  calm 
The  slender  ship  outward  and  onward  strives, 
Bearing  to  odorous  shores  of  date  and  palm 
The  burden  of  a  hundred  little  lives. 

On  a  like  course  drift  I  toward  the  verge 

Beyond  which  lies  what  now  I  may  not  know ; 

Yet  my  heart  whispers  these  gray  wastes  of  surge 
Stretch  whither  it  is  good  for  me  to  go. 

Youth,  like  the  speeding  sun,  left  far  behind — 
Unanswered  questions  mutely  sent  before — 

Oh,  great,  dim  East,  what  welcome  shall  I  find 
When  thy  wide  arms  unveil  the  distant  shore? 

The  prow  knows  not  the  harbor  that  it  nears, 
Nor  I  if  thou  shalt  bring  the  seeker  rest : — 

Yet  the  strong  hand  the  fragile  ship  that  steers 

Will  guide  her  to  the  haven  that  is  best ! 
NEW  YORK,  1896. 


124 


A  Fragment 


WHEN  she  is  forward,  querulous,  or  wild, 
Thou  knowest,  Abba,  how  in  each  offence 
I  stint  not  patience  lest  I  wrong  the  child, 

Mistaking  for  revolt  defect  of  sense — 
For  wilfulness  mere  sprightliness  of  mind ; 
Thou  knowest  how  often,  seeing,  I  am  blind. 

And  how,  when  twice,  for  something  grievous  done, 
I  could  but  smite,  and  though  I  lightly  smote, 
I  felt  my  heart  rise  strangling  in  my  throat ; 
And  when  she  wept  I  kissed  the  poor  red  hands. 
All  these  things,  Father,  a  father  understands ; 

And  am  I  not  Thy  son? 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Thou  'st  seen  how  closely,  Abba,  when  at  rest 
My  child's  head  nestles  to  my  breast ; 

125 


A  Fragment 

And  how  my  arm  her  little  form  enfolds, 
Lest  in  the  darkness  she  should  feel  alone ; 

And  how  she  holds 
My  hands,  my  hands,  my  two  hands  in  her  own ! 

A  little  easeful  sighing 

And  restful  turning  round, 
And  I,  too,  on  Thy  love  relying, 

Shall  slumber  sound. 
NEW  YORK,  1893. 


126 


The  Spirit  of  Mid-Ocean 

THE  hesitant  sun  stands  still,  with  the  arch  of  a  day 
complete, 
And  fingers  the  yielding  latch  on  the  door  of  his  sequent 

dawn, 

And  the  slender  poplars  shiver  and  gather  about  their  feet 
Their  long,  limp  skirts  of  shadow  that  lay  on  the  eastward 

lawn. 
Then  the  night,  the  blue-black  night,  breathes  on  the  mirror 

of  heaven, 

Blurs  to  the  ghost  of  gray  the  reflected  blue  of  the  sea, 
And  the  soul  of  her  stirs  on  the  calm,  a  sudden  impalpable 

leaven, 

Troubling  inanimate  twilight  with  hints  of  a  storm  to  be. 
White  on  the  gathering  dusk,  a  gull  swings  in  to  the  west, 
Touching  the  ominous  ocean  with  the  tips  of  tentative 

wings, 

And  the  bell  of  a  distant  buoy,  a  dot  on  a  sluggish  crest, 
Bays  in  reverberant  bass  monition  of  threatening  things ! 

127 


The  Spirit  of  Mid-Ocean 


Then,  like  a  wraith  that  stands  in  the  presence  of  them  that 

sleep, 

Pacing  the  pinguid  sea  as  a  ghost  on  a  slated  floor, 
Uncloaking  her  shining  shoulders  from  the  robe  of  the  jeal- 
ous deep, 
The   Spirit   of     Grave  Mid-Ocean   steps    silently   in   to 

shore. 
And  her  strong  hands  hold  the  keys  to  the  depths  that  none 

may  plumb, 
And  the  bond  of  God  with  His  sea  her  ears  alone  have 

heard ; 

But  her  stern  lips  guard  the  secret,  loyal,  unfaltering,  dumb, 
Till  the  sums  on  which  we  labor  be  solved  by  a  single 

word! 

Calm  with  the  infinite  calm  of  the  North's  immutable  star, 
Crowned  with  serene  omniscience,  O  Spirit  of  Deep  Mid- 
Sea, 

If  thus  majestic  and  mute  God's  stately  seneschals  are, 
What,   in  His  own  high  heaven,  shall  your  Maker  and 
Master  be? 

Am  I  then  the  last  of  the  men  that  this  day  departed  saw, 
Sole  survivor  of  all  whom  it  roused  to  strive  and  stir, 

128 


The  Spirit  of  Mid-Ocean 

That  I  stand  alone  in  the  night,  and,  beaten  to  bay  by  awe, 

Confront  in  the  sudden  stillness  the  eloquent  eyes  of  Her? 

Wake!   my  unconscious  comrades,  my  brothers  in  shame 

and  sin, 
Vexed  with  your  ominous  dreaming,  tortured  by  doubt 

and  fear! 
See  on  the  wings  of  midnight  the  presence  of  peace  come 

in, 
With  the  calm,  disburdening  message  that  never  a  noon 

may  hear. 

Stand  face-front  to  the  surges,  deaf  to  your  preachers'  lore, 
Claim  no  creed  of  their  making,  for,  on  the  awestruck 

sea, 

The  Spirit  of  Strong  Mid-Ocean  steps  silently  in  to  shore : — 
Hush!     If  this  be  the  servant,  what  must  the  Master  be? 
SWAMPSCOTT,  1901. 

THE  END 


I29 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


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REC'D  UD 


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REC'D  LD 

DEC  12  1961 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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